


Vegas Lights (Swimming With The Sharks)

by stayfr0sty



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Bullying, Edgy, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, Las Vegas, M/M, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Slow Burn, Teen Angst, Teenagers, brallon, but definitely multiple chapters so STAY TUNED!!!!!!!!!!!!!, idk how long this one is gonna be, outcasts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2019-10-16 10:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 24,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17547854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayfr0sty/pseuds/stayfr0sty
Summary: It's 2004, and Brendon Urie hates his life.He never expected to move to Las Vegas right before the start of senior year. But after the fight, after the incident involving his dad, his mom, a beer bottle, and several stitches, his mother decided that they needed a fresh start.And apparently, a "fresh start" means that they have to uproot their lives, pack up their belongings, and get the hell out of the city before Brendon can say goodbye to his friends and everyone he's grown up with. Las Vegas may be a dream for some, but it's more of a nightmare for a seventeen year-old boy from L.A.However, someone at his new school changes everything.





	1. Welcome To Fabulous Las Vegas

**Author's Note:**

> So, Brendon is an asshole.
> 
> But he'll get better, I promise.
> 
> Also, this first chapter is mainly exposition. Sorry about that. The action will happen.. eventually.
> 
> Anyways, this is gonna end up being several chapters long, and I plan on telling this story as best as I can. Stick around if you want.

"I never said I wanted this," Brendon says, and his two sisters are screaming in the backseat, drowning out his words with high-pitched screams. He squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn't help.

He continues, "You should've left me in Los Angeles. I'm seventeen. I could've stayed with Hayley, or Alex-"

"You're too young. Besides, this will be a new start," his mother says from the driver's seat. Her eyes are fixated on the road, but her hands are shaky on the wheel.

Brendon scoffs. "Fuck a 'new start-'"

"Language."

"Fuck you."

They sit in silence after that.

The car is quiet all the way to Vegas. They drive past the bright lights and too-tall skyscrapers, and for a moment, Brendon is reminded of his home, Los Angeles. He's reminded of the palm trees, of the sunny days, of that adrenaline-fueled rushed feeling of forever. He's reminded of his friends, of the nights spent at tiny music venues, of the memories he made in the city of angels. If his mother has her way, he will never, ever go back.

The skies are cotton candy and marmalade, but the rest of the city shatters the illusion of sweetness. There is nothing candy-sweet here. The smog hurts his throat. He sees a sex shop every block. Girls stand on street corners with revealing tops and inviting smiles. It smells like smoke and dirt, like filth and rot.

Brendon fucking hates Vegas.

Their house is hell. There's one bathroom, three rooms, and a meager excuse for a back yard. Standing there and staring at an ant crawling on the pavement as his mother hauls box after box into their new house, he wonders what the hell this pathetic patch of grass could possibly be used for. Even when he closes his eyes, he can't imagine his younger sisters playing on it, he can't imagine their smiles and laughter, not here, where dirt is everywhere and the sun is so bright it hurts. They can't possibly thrive here, and neither can he. What the fuck was his mom thinking? This is hell, this is hell, this is hell. It's so unlike the house back in Los Angeles with the swimming pool and hot tub. The chain-link fence surrounding it is a cheap mockery of the white picket fence that used to be his.

However, he keeps his mouth shut, and he goes to retrieve his suitcase, dragging it into his bedroom and slamming the door shut. He remembers his guitar, and he lets out a sigh, before deciding that he'd get it in the morning. He isn't in the mood tonight to play. Really, he isn't in the mood for anything.

So he stands up, and he heads to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. A boy with haunted eyes and bruises stares at him from the mirror. The boy moves when Brendon moves, blinks when Brendon blinks, and when Brendon places his palm flat against the cold surface, the boy mirrors the action. Stepping back, he shakes his head, and so does his reflection.

"Brendon, Brendon, Brendon," he murmurs wryly, mockingly, dryly, "You look like hell."

He doesn't really expect a response, and he doesn't get one.

The bathroom is too cold, and he'd been planning to shower, but the cramped shower and tile floor doesn't look inviting. Instead, he tells his mother, "I'm going out," and grabs his jacket, intending never to return.

He doesn't know his way around this neighborhood - of course he doesn't, it's been thirty fucking minutes since he arrived - so he takes a few rights, a few lefts, and suddenly he's on a busy road. Cars whiz past him at an alarming speed. The air is thick and gray, and every time he inhales, he tastes gasoline. God knows where he's headed. Mainly, he wants out of the house, and out of that damn tiled bathroom with the boy in the mirror that won't stop copying his movements.

Brendon's fully aware that he's not thinking rationally. Just getting up and leaving is never a good idea, especially when he has a poor sense of direction and five dollars to his name. But lately, he hasn't been making the best decisions. Ever since they left L.A, he's been hellbent on making everyone else miserable until they return. His therapist's always told him to stop taking his anger out on others, and especially on himself.

However, he's not good at taking advice. And besides, anyone in his situation would be pissed off. He left his friends. His school. His life, everything he's known. And what, because his dad is a heavy drinker? He didn't give a fuck about what his dad did, so long as it didn't affect the rest of them. But then the argument happened because his mom was a little too nosy and asked a little too many questions, and somehow, they ended up in the ER after his dad tripped and sliced his own skin open while threatening to kill his mom.

The stitches were his own damn fault. Brendon doesn't care. He never does, not about these types of things. This is his reality, and he prefers to stay numb.

Brendon plugs in his earbuds. Better not to dwell on these types of things. Daddy issues, depression, whatever. What's done is done. There's no going back, no changing things.

He swallows, and he loses himself in the suburbs. He's not totally sure where he's going, or when he'll head back. But he loops around, somehow, and eventually he starts recognizing street names, and finally, he finds his way home.

A gunshot is heard that night as he sleeps. The next morning, they say on the news that it was a drive-by shooting at the convenience store nearby. A pretty blonde woman smiles brightly as she describes the fatality: the 42 year-old cashier. No family. No loved ones. Brendon laughs and says that maybe this poor motherfucker pissed off the wrong guy. Maybe they were out of Funyuns.

His mother slaps him, and thus begins his first real day in Vegas.


	2. Sin City's Latest Victim

"Shut the fuck up, faggot!" are the first words Brendon hears when he steps off of the school bus. They aren't directed at him, but he still looks over. Some kids are haggling a short, plump kid, whose glasses are cracked in one lens, and whose too-big sweater looks like it's about to swallow him whole. He's crying, sobbing ugly tears and pleading for help. Brendon looks away.

He's never been the noble type. Never been heroic. No, Brendon Urie isn't one to play Superman. However, he does feel guilty, and he's almost considering going over and telling them to stop fucking around, but then he sees a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and he feels better as soon as he realizes it's a teacher approaching.

He sighs, and he continues onward, turning his music up higher and praying for an escape. As he steps into the building, he heads for the office, and the receptionist is businesslike and sterile as she hands him his schedule.

He peers down at it: first period Chemistry, second period English..

Brendon doesn't bother to read the rest. Class apparently starts in five minutes, so he walks down the main hallway and past his assigned locker, past a group of girls snickering, past a boy with too-bright pink hair and a disarming smile. He enters room A-2, and fortunately, he's not the first one there. Unfortunately, the teacher looks up and makes eye contact with him.

"Brendon Urie!" he says loud enough to turn heads, and Brendon wants to die on the spot. He forces a smile as the teacher pulls out a clipboard, walking towards him and making a small annotation with his pen.

"Welcome," he tells him, "I know you're new here, the office told me all about your 'situation'.." He lowers his voice. "Don't worry, class only started a couple of days ago. You'll fit right in and make all kinds of new friends."

Brendon would rather fucking die than make all kinds of new friends.

Especially here, at this high school that he's never been to before. And as a senior, he's bound to stand out. That must be what this asshole meant by "situation".

"You'll sit right here," the teacher says cheerfully, pointing at a lab station in the back of the classroom. Thank God, Brendon thinks. Back of the class means less attention.

"It's a good thing you're here," he continues, "We had an odd number of students. Never optimal for labs. But now you're here!" He sounds weirdly happy that Brendon's here, like it's good. Like it's a fucking privilege to be here.

Brendon merely nods and goes to his seat. He's not enthusiastic about the idea of having a lab partner. It was never a problem back in Los Angeles, where he knew everyone and everyone knew him. There, school was fun. There, he actually had a will to live.

The bell rings minutes later, and by that time, most of the class had showed up. However, the seat next to him remained empty, which he doesn't have a problem with.

The teacher - who Brendon never bothered to learn the name of - begins class, clapping his hands and announcing that they'll continue the lab they started the day prior. Brendon's zoning out when the door opens, and everyone's eyes dart to the figure standing in the doorway.

"You're late," the instructor informs the figure, and Brendon still isn't even paying attention when he feels someone's presence.

"Sorry, Mr. Knight," says a voice right next to him.

A freakishly tall boy with a sweater on, in the middle of August, in Vegas, sits down next to him. And finally, this snaps Brendon out of his sluggish haze. As the teacher resumes talking, he steals a glance at him, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees his face.

Goddamn, maybe this school wouldn't be so bad after all.

During roll, Brendon finds out that his name is Dallon. It's fitting. Pretentious name for a pretentious boy with floppy hair and the bluest eyes. He sits back in his chair, slumped but still alert. Brendon wonders if he likes boys.

If his delicate fingers would look good wrapped around his throat.

If those lips were as soft as they looked.

Dallon catches his eye, and he smiles at him.


	3. A New Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just planned out this entire fic.
> 
> You guys are in for one hell of a ride.

The moment doesn't last for long, because almost immediately, Mr. Knight is clapping his hands and calling the class to attention.

"So," he says in that nasally, self-important voice, "You're all going to continue that introductory lab you started yesterday. I want all of you to finish by the end of the period. No excuses." He turns his gaze to Brendon's corner of the room. "Mr. Weekes," he continues, and Brendon realizes Dallon's last name must be Weekes, "You're going to show Mr. Urie-" Brendon flinches at the mention of his last name, "- what we were doing yesterday, alright? Show the new guy the ropes." He chuckles, and Brendon swallows as he realizes everyone is looking at him. Fuck teachers and their constant, unwavering ability to embarrass students. The last time he'd felt this singled out was in middle school, for Christ's sake.

Finally, everyone starts shuffling around as they prepare the lab, and after Mr. Knight drops off a blank sheet of paper, Brendon glances at Dallon. He's beautiful, no doubt about it. His eyes are the deepest blue Brendon's ever seen, and he finds himself unable to look away. Gorgeous boys are uncommon. And even if they are gorgeous, they're usually straight.

"My name's Dallon," he says with a short nod. Brendon thinks his voice is the prettiest he's ever heard.

"I'm Brendon," he returns with an easy smile, and all the while, he's wondering if this pretty boy is like the majority, or if he's into boys. One can hope, after all.

There's a second or two of awkward silence, and finally, Dallon clears his throat.

"So, we were, uh, working on a lab that's mainly just.. measuring. Learning how to use the scale and all that." Dallon gestures at the scale in front of him.

"That's cool," Brendon says vaguely, and then Dallon clears his throat.

"I actually finished the lab yesterday, so if you want.." Dallon slides a piece of paper over to Brendon. "Copy it."

Brendon glances down at it. "You finished it all by yourself?" He looks up at him, raising an eyebrow in a way that he hopes is sexy and charming and not at all awkward and stupid.

"Well- well, actually, I worked with my previous lab partner, but she dropped this class, so.." Dallon shrugs.

"Oh," Brendon replies, secretly glad that this mysterious lab partner is gone, because now he has an opportunity to get closer to this beautiful boy with bright blue eyes, "What a shame."

"Yeah," Dallon sighs, "It is. She's my girlfriend, too, so it would've been perfect. Not-not that I'm, you know, irritated at _you_ for taking her place or anything. She dropped out before you even came here, anyway, her schedule.."

Brendon tunes out at the word "girlfriend". Goddammit. God fucking dammit. And to think that he'd been sure that things were going so well. Why are the pretty ones always straight? Life isn't fucking fair.

Such a pretty face gone to waste, he thinks. Mentally, he resolves to stop admiring Dallon's beauty from now on. No use wanting what you can't have.

Brendon doesn't reply, and he doesn't notice the way Dallon's awkward smile falters.

When the class ends, Dallon leaves without saying goodbye.

In his next few periods, there's a lack of noticeably pretty boys, unfortunately. And Brendon, despite his attempts not to, can't stop thinking about Dallon and those stupidly fucking perfect blue eyes. Just his luck that he's straight, and that clearly, Brendon doesn't deserve to have a single good thing happen to him. So he tries to block all thoughts of those blue eyes out of his head, and he manages to survive. By lunch, he's forgotten all about him. It was a fleeting crush, nothing more.

The lunch bell rings when he's gazing blankly at a wall, and he lets out a sigh of relief, thanking whatever gods that exist that he gets at least a few minutes of alone time. Standing up, he lifts his backpack onto his shoulders and trudges down the hallway, past his unused locker and straight to a courtyard he'd seen earlier. It's out of the way, and there's only one table, so he assumes he'll be alone.

Unfortunately, his bad luck continues, when he sees a rag-tag group of misfits enter the courtyard. Brendon's all set up at the table with his binder and lunch out, backpack open, and there is no way in hell he wants to move. He resolves to tell the group to fuck off.

When they approach, he realizes one of them is Dallon. Fuck. Next to him is a boy with bright blue hair and a miserable-looking fringe, and trailing behind the two is a short, chubby little dude, whose glasses are cracked in one lens. Brendon recognizes him as the kid who was being harassed earlier that day, and he feels a short pang of sympathy.

Brendon doesn't say anything, only continues chewing on his sandwich as they stare at him expectantly.

"This is our table," the blue-haired boy says, and Brendon has to crane his neck to look up at him, because he's fucking tall. Not as tall as Dallon, of course, but pretty damn close.

"Okay." Brendon replies simply.

"What he means," Dallon says, "is that we usually sit here."

"Okay."

A hint of anger crosses Dallon's face. "So," he tells him in a reserved, barely-polite tone, "Could you move?"

Brendon considers it. He considers how shitty the day has been for him, and he knows it's not right to take his anger out on other people, but he's fucking miserable. He wishes he wasn't alive. And besides, he's not gonna let this weird, uptight kid push him around, even if he has the prettiest eyes Brendon's ever seen.

So with dead eyes, he looks at Dallon and says, "No."

Dallon huffs. "So you won't move?"

When Brendon doesn't answer, Dallon crosses his arms and says, "Oh, come _on_ -"

"Dal," the short kid says in a soft, pleading voice, placing his hand on Dallon's shoulder (it's the highest he can reach).

"Get off me, Patrick," Dallon mutters, shaking him off, and Patrick looks hurt.

"I was just sayi-"

"Oh, _fine_ ," Brendon heaves a sigh. "Jesus Christ." He stands up, and without looking at them, he shoves his stuff in his backpack, and he walks off.

That, he decides, was a battle he did not win.

But he didn't want to provoke them further, he didn't want confrontation, he just wanted to eat his damn lunch.

So he goes to the parking lot, and he sits alone. He sees the same boys that were bullying Patrick earlier, and they're not actively doing anything bad, but one of them has his eye on a little freshman girl. Brendon looks away.

He's taking out a cigarette when the ten-minute bell rings. He's still sitting in the parking lot with the burnt-out cigarette dangling between his fingers when the one-minute bell rings. He's considering skipping class.

And he does.

Nobody ever asks him what he's doing. Nobody cares. Not at this crumbling school with the red paint and the dusty halls. People couldn't care less about this hell on Earth.

 


	4. New Friends and Split Ends

When the bell rings to signify the end of fifth period and Brendon's hot and sweaty from sitting in the sun, he decides to head to sixth period, if only to be in the cold, air-conditioned classroom. Clearing his throat and shaking his head, he stands up, then pulls his backpack on and heaves a deep sigh. He doesn't even really know what class he's heading to, so he pulls out his schedule and glances at it briefly before realizing he's heading to the B wing. Fantastic, he thinks dryly, he has no fucking idea where that could be.

He swallows his pride and asks a gorgeous brunette girl with clunky Doc Martens if she knows where the B wing is. She looks at him disdainfully for a moment, before pointing to the right with her thumb and continuing onwards. He mumbles a thank-you, but she's already stalking off, and he doubts she heard him. He finds his class with almost no trouble, and he realizes he's late when the bell rings as soon as he walks in the door. All eyes turn to him, and he wants to cry.

"Brendon Urie?" asks the teacher, and all Brendon can do is manage a nod. He's sick of teachers at this school, thanks to the Mr. Knight incident.

Thankfully, this teacher doesn't seem to be all that bad. She merely points to a seat and Brendon flops down into it gratefully. Next to him is a boy with a friendly-looking smile, greasy hair, and too much eyeliner. Brendon doesn't really spare him a second glance. He doesn't compare to Dallon, and as soon as Brendon thinks that, he mentally slaps himself. He doesn't even _know_ Dallon, besides the awkward conversations during first period and at lunch, when they almost argued. Brendon almost feels bad for being an asshole. He should've just let them sit at the table, and he wonders if he should apologize, but then he decides to just wait and see how things are the next day. Maybe Dallon would forgive him for his rudeness, and they could pretend like The Lunch Incident never happened.

Besides, even if Dallon is straight, he desperately needs friends. Even if he hates people, even if he prefers to be alone.

Speaking of people, the boy next to him is tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey," he greets him with a too-happy grin, "I'm Pete."

Brendon really isn't sure how to respond.

"Hey," he replies, unsure, cautious. "I'm Brendon." He glances at Pete's outfit: he reminds him of someone he once saw on Myspace. Wearing all black, hair dyed jet black, and a faded, battered Green Day shirt displayed on his torso. But Brendon has good taste in music, so he smiles just a bit and tells him, "I like your shirt."

The effect is instantaneous. Pete's grin grows even wider. Brendon wonders how the hell he's so happy. And then he studies him closer. His eyes are a little too frantic, he's tapping on the desk at the speed of light, and he's twitching. Drugs. Some kind of pill, probably. He doesn't judge, of course, he's not one to berate others on substance abuse.

"Thanks," Pete says brightly, and there's this edge to his voice that only confirms Brendon's suspicions about the pill thing. "So, you're new here?"

The teacher is talking, but Pete really doesn't seem to care. And neither does Brendon, he supposes.

"Yeah," Brendon responds. "Yeah, I guess."

"It's senior year." Pete looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah."

"So, why'd you come here?" Pete tilts his head, like an interested puppy, maybe. "Transfer schools or something? You a troublemaker, Bren?

"No. Not really, no." Brendon says, and he almost wants to sigh. He's tired of this same old question, of this "Why did you come here?" and "Where are you from?".

"Then why?" Pete pushes.

"It's a long story."

"Okay." Pete considers this for a second. "So, where are you from?"

Brendon allows himself to sigh.

"Los Angeles," he tells him, his voice tired and lifeless.

"Hey, that's cool. Meet any movie stars or anything?" 

"Nope." Brendon pops the 'p'.

"Lame." Pete says.

"Yeah."

"Not gonna lie," Pete continues, "This school sucks ass. You should've stayed in L.A. Vegas is shitty."

"Yeah, I kinda picked up on that." Brendon says, and he thinks that this is the first relatable thing Pete has said.

"The music scene is pretty cool, though. Lots of bands. Most of them shitty, but hey," Pete shrugs, "Some of them don't suck."

"Oh, yeah?" Brendon is almost interested. He perks up, just a bit. "Like who?"

Pete goes on to list bands, none of which Brendon has heard of. He rips a piece of paper out of his notebook and scribbles a few names on it, circling one and placing a smiley face next to it. Brendon promises to check them out.

"There's a show tonight," he continues after he slides the paper to Brendon. "Arma Angelus. It's my band. You should come." He smiles. "We're not half bad."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe."

Brendon probably doesn't sound convinced, because Pete digs in his backpack and pulls out a CD.

"Give this a listen when you get home. The show is at, uh.." He yanks the paper back from Brendon and writes an address. He taps the paper with his index finger. "Come if you want."

When Brendon gets the paper back, he folds it up and shoves it into his pocket. As for the CD, he examines it for a moment. It's not that official, nor is it particularly well-designed, but Brendon has to hand it to Pete for having an actual CD and tracklist. He wonders if his band is big, if they're signed. Maybe, maybe not. They couldn't be that big, if Pete is desperately trying to promote their new CD to a boy he just met. But he resolves to judge them when he gets home, and when he has a chance to listen to their music.

"Maybe," he says, slipping it into his backpack, "I'll think about it. Thanks for the CD."

Later that day, Brendon doesn't end up going to the show after all, but he does listen to the CD. It's not great, exactly, but it might be, if Pete and his bandmates tried hard enough. It gives him something to do, anyway, because he's not doing his homework, and he doesn't want to do anything except stay in his room. At least Pete was nice. Brendon wonders if maybe he made a friend. Maybe it cancelled out his dumbass actions involving Dallon and those stupidly beautiful eyes. He cringes when he remembers how he brushed him off when he said he was straight. Even Brendon himself has to admit that it was a shitty move. He shouldn't have done that, he thinks. And he especially shouldn't have been rude. It was a fucking lunch table, for Christ's sake. Why did Brendon get so defensive? Oh, right. Because Dallon said he was straight, and so he decided to throw a fucking temper tantrum.

He wonders if he's overthinking things. And then he gives up, deciding that this isn't worth mentally agonizing over, and collapses onto his bed.

The second day is decidedly better than the first. It turns out, he didn't really piss Dallon off after all. Although they don't speak, really, there's no bad vibes. No anger. Nothing.

In fact, Dallon's almost friendly when Brendon asks him what the homework was.

"We didn't have any," Dallon answers politely, and Brendon admires the slight smile on his lips. He hopes that maybe it's directed at him, that it's a sign that he likes him.

And Jesus, he's really overthinking this. God. If only he was't such a gay disaster.

Brendon mumbles a quick goodbye when he leaves. And as the days pass, this seems to be the new normal. There may be a little tension, maybe because - definitely because - Brendon was an asshole at lunch the first day, but it's almost normal, and he tries to stop overthinking things. Besides, he has Pete to distract him in 6th period.

Pete loves talking, he finds out. Brendon mentions that he liked the CD, and Pete goes off for ten minutes about how hard it was to produce and how much time he put in. It's easy to tune out, and Brendon realizes he likes the background noise. This becomes a constant, and he almost looks forward to seeing Pete every day. He wonders if Pete is lonely, or if he just likes the sound of his own voice. Probably the latter.

This becomes the new normal. Wake up, go to school, eat alone, skip class, come home, eat Lean Cuisine, sleep. Repeat.

He's not happy, not exactly. But maybe he's not so miserable, now that he's settled into a routine of being alone and being lonely.


	5. Forget Just Who You Really Are

Brendon spends most of his time alone, seeing that he has no friends. Well, close to no friends. He has Pete, he supposes.

Pete Wentz... Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz the third, if he's being specific. He is, weirdly enough, the nicest person Brendon's met so far - and the strangest person, too, but he's willing to overlook his oddities. So what if he talks too much, or if he's constantly too twitchy or hyper? Brendon can understand that, after all; he'd been medicated for ADHD up until 8th grade when he decided that he didn't like the way the pills made him feel. Maybe it wasn't the best decision to stop taking his meds, but he can deal with the mood swings, the difficulty focusing, the impulsivity..

Long story short, Brendon doesn't really care that Pete is a little bit strange. He's nice company - in 6th period, at least. When Brendon's not in 6th period, he's in his other classes or at lunch, and he can usually make it to 6th without saying a single word to another human being. It's easy to keep his mouth shut and to retreat into his own fantasy world for a few hours. Lunch is usually a bit of a struggle, seeing as he has to sit alone, but he usually sits in the parking lot, and he's actually grown used to the unbearable silence. Maybe being alone doesn't come to him naturally, but he's finally settled into a pattern.

This pattern is included but not limited to: skipping class, listening to Pete talk about music, sitting alone in the bathroom or the parking lot, listening to Pete talk about drugs, going to the convenience store after school to buy soda, listening to Pete describe his latest sexual encounter... 

"Jesus, dude," Brendon says after Pete's finished describing, in graphic detail, the girl who he spilled beer on and how he subsequently licked it off of her, "Do you ever do anything normal? Do you- hell, I don't know, go to the movies? Do homework?"

Pete smiles, one of those bright, happy Pete grins. "Pete Wentz," he says, "does not do homework. Pete Wentz picks up chicks."

Brendon wants to puke at the word chicks and how disgustingly gross it is, but he finds himself laughing. Pete's infectious. He's the kind of person that everyone loves. He doesn't need to wonder why Pete's not popular, though; he doesn't dress preppy, and nor does he actively try to fit in. Maybe at parties, when everyone's drunk and horny, Pete Wentz truly fits in, but most of the time, he's just a little too weird.

Their conversations are mostly one-sided, but Brendon honestly doesn't mind listening. He's glad Pete likes him. He doesn't know why he likes him, exactly, but he's glad he does. They're acquaintances, he thinks. Maybe friends. Probably not. Yeah, acquaintances.

A few weeks later, well after Brendon makes the decision that he and Pete are acquaintances, he's walking in the main hallway when a poster on the wall catches his eye. It's advertising a show, a big one, apparently, with about 5 bands. But one particular band is at the very top.

"Arma Angelus," he murmurs to himself. He wonders where he's heard that before. "Arma Angelus, Arma.. Pete," he realizes.

"You called?" A disgustingly greasy boy pops up from behind him, and Brendon nearly has a heart attack.

"Holy _fuck_ ," he swears, and Pete looks amused. "Where did you come from?"

"I was behind you," Pete explains simply, and Brendon wants to ask why, exactly, was Pete Wentz following him, when Pete keeps talking. 

"Listen, hey, I was looking for you. I have band practice tonight, but my friends and I are going to Mel's afterwards. It's a- it's a local diner. You should come."

The invitation temporarily stuns Brendon into silence, and Pete doesn't have the patience to wait for him to comprehend what he just said.

"Well? Do you want to come?"

Brendon finally manages to croak out, "Are you sure your friends want me there?"

Pete grins. "Of course. I've told them all about you."

Somehow, Brendon doesn't find that comforting. But he nods regardless.

"Cool. I'll see you at six." Then Pete disappears as quickly as he showed up, and Brendon is left wondering what the hell just happened. Why did Pete invite him to hang out? Were they.. friends? Because that disproves Brendon's whole "acquaintances" theory. The situation wasn't really all that strange, but it'd been so long since Brendon was invited to do _anything_ that he's sort of shocked.

Maybe he's excited, too. He's not really sure yet.

When he gets home, he realizes he doesn't know where it is. Or how he's going to get there. So he dials Pete's number - Pete gave it to him a week or so ago when he wanted to discuss the new Weezer album the second it came out - and prays that he picks up.

He does, thank God. After Brendon's written down his address and referenced a map, he glances at a clock, and realizes that he's going to have to leave in about fifteen minutes if he's going to walk there and still make it on time. So he throws on a new jacket and some cologne, and he gets his ass out of the house before he's going to be late.

In fact, he arrives just on time, thankfully. Walking into the diner alone is unpleasant, but he sees Pete at a table with some other kids, and he sighs in relief.

Pete stands when he sees him, and Brendon.. instantly wants to die when Pete's mouth opens.

"Guys!" He beams. "Guys, this is Brendon Urie." Brendon doesn't think he's ever told Pete his last name.

Everyone turns to look at him, and Brendon scans to see if he recognizes anyone. There's a boy with scruffy facial hair and a baby, squishy face. There's a kid he recognizes with bright blue hair - maybe his name is Jim, or Jay, or something. Next to him is a pretty girl who's holding his hand, and Brendon almost recognizes her, he thinks. On the other side of the table, there's three people he definitely recognizes.

First, there's Patrick: Dallon's friend, and the kid who was getting beat up.

Second, there's the other boy with blue hair, but his is straightened and much more green, and Brendon remembers seeing him during The Lunch Incident.

And finally, there's Dallon. He offers an awkward smile.

The Dallon situation is complicated. They're lab partners, so of course they're forced to work together, but there's always been that weird tension between them, ever since Brendon was an asshole. Typical of him to fuck things up. But they were acquaintances, maybe, barely, and Brendon still likes to steal glances at him sometimes.

Pete pulls him down next to him on the edge of the booth, and he definitely feels out of place.

"Guys," Pete says for the third time. "Guys, so- okay, Brendon, this is Spencer." He gestures to the boy with scraggly facial hair. "And this is Josh." He motions to the first blue-haired boy. "And that's his girlfriend, Debby, and that's Dallon, and that's Ryan, and that's Patrick."

They all smile and greet him, but Patrick's smile is the only one that feels genuine.

His arrival seemed to have caused a momentary jolt in conversation, but everyone starts talking fairly quickly. Everyone except for Brendon, that is.

And then Patrick, god bless his heart, takes pity on him.

"So, you're new, right?"

Brendon nods, and they go through the typical routine where Patrick asks why he moved and Brendon says it's a long story, and then Spencer speaks up.

"What's L.A. like?" he ventures, maybe trying to start some small talk between him and Brendon, but the entire table seems to be listening.

"Loud," Brendon tells him, with the faintest smile on his face, "Loud and busy. I miss it, though. I had to leave a lot of friends behind."

"Oh," Patrick says, and his tone is actually sympathetic, "I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's okay," Brendon shrugs. "There are some people I don't miss, so honestly, it's fine."

"Like who?" Patrick asks.

Brendon cracks a smile. "My ex, Ryan, for starters."

"Was she a crazy ex?" Pete asks excitedly. "I've had to deal with those. There was this one girl, actually-"

"Yeah," Brendon cuts him off. "Yeah, he definitely was crazy."

The table goes dead silent.

The moment lasts too long, but Brendon doesn't regret saying it. It's the 21st century, for fuck's sake. They can go grow a goddamn spine.

"Well," Pete says, his tone a brave attempt at normalcy, "That sucks, dude. You know, I actually dated someone who.."

Pete launches off on yet another tirade about god knows what, and gradually, the tension at the table begins to lessen, for the most part.

It takes dinner and dessert before Brendon finally relaxes. However, he does notice that Dallon doesn't talk. Like, at all. There's an uncomfortable, cold expression on his face, and Brendon realizes that he must be shy. Especially around new people, and especially in a big group like this. And again, he feels bad for being rude to him, even if it was a month ago. He resolves to apologize for his bad behavior the next day. Maybe that would make Dallon more comfortable around him.

But he ignores Dallon, and he shovels down his burger and milkshake, and he pretends the tension isn't there.

Patrick is kind to him. So is Spencer. And Debby, too. The rest of them, he isn't so sure about.

However, when Brendon leaves, and Pete offers him a ride home, he feels like he's made new friends. Maybe. Almost.


	6. You've Got A Lot of Nerve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate all of the kind feedback <333 You guys have no idea how happy it makes me when people say they actually like what I write. It's insane. Thank you for leaving comments or kudos!!!!!

When Brendon collapses into bed, he realizes that he's not sad. It's a miracle. For the first time in months, there isn't this weight, this _thing_  weighing down on his chest and suffocating him, this loneliness that's almost too much to bear sometimes. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the company of people. Sure, he has a family, but he's barely on speaking terms with his mother, and it's not like he's going to hang out with his little sisters. The time at the diner, however awkward, did him good.

So Brendon falls asleep happy for the first time in months.

When he wakes up in the morning, he's optimistic, which is a feeling Brendon Urie generally doesn't experience most of the time. He even showers before school, and on his way out, he manages to even make himself breakfast. This is a feat he hasn't accomplished in maybe three weeks.

"You're smiling," says his mother, and the chatty conversation of his sisters goes quiet.

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."

It seems that things are finally picking up for him. On the way to school, his headphones start working again, he finds a $5 bill in the bottom of his backpack, and for once, the bright sun doesn't hurt his eyes. In fact, there's a slight chill to the air, and he loves it.

"Brendon!" he hears faintly, and he pauses his iPod, glancing up to see none other than Patrick.

"Hey!" He waves, and he suddenly realizes that he's smiling again. What the fuck?

"Dude," Patrick is breathless, and his cheeks are all red and blushy. It's cute. But Patrick's not his type, Brendon thinks. He's too.. happy. Like Pete, incidentally. No wonder the two were friends.

"Dude," Patrick repeats, "You will not believe what just happened. So you know Mr. Wood?"

Brendon nods, even though he has no idea who Mr. Wood is.

"Yeah, yeah, so you know how he's in the Chem department? Yeah, so- some kids were finishing up a lab yesterday after class, and guess what? He left the class, right, because he wanted coffee from the lounge, and while he was gone, they-they lit the fucking lab on fire! Like it's- it's cinders, man, ash and cinders. It's so cool. He might be getting fired!"

Patrick seems beyond gleeful.

"Fired." Brendon repeats slowly.

"Yeah, fired. Oh, _fired_.." Patrick snorts. "Ha. That's good."

"Did you guys _hear_?" hollers that bastard Pete Wentz, who's snuck up on Brendon for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Yes," Brendon says. "Yes. We heard."

Pete slings his arm around Patrick's shoulders. "I don't have _Chemistry_!" he tells him and Brendon giddily. "No Chem if the classroom is gone!"

"Well," Patrick admits, "The classroom is still there, I think."

Pete ponders this. "Damn."

"I still have Chemistry," says Brendon to nobody in particular.

"Sucks for you."

The bell rings.

"See, look," Pete points over at the A wing as he unwraps himself from around Patrick, "It's smoldering."

As Brendon makes his way past the A wing, he glances inside the classroom that is, supposedly, ash and cinders. The carpet is singed. That's about it. Brendon doubts that anyone will be missing Chemistry for the time being.

And that, unfortunately, includes himself. He sighs as he walks into his (unburnt and unscorched) Chemistry classroom. It's not that the class is bad, necessarily. In fact, he's grown to like Mr. Knight, despite his loud and annoying qualities.

It's just that he'd made a promise to himself, and that promise was to apologize to Dallon Weekes for their rough start. He hates this tension, whatever it is, that's made things awkward. So maybe apologizing for his rude behavior would help. Maybe.

He prays that Dallon won't come to class today, but unfortunately, he sees his familiar lanky figure approach out of the corner of his eye.

Goddammit.

Thankfully, as soon as Dallon sits down, Mr. Knight starts talking.

"So, as I'm sure you're all aware of by now, there was an incident in Mr. Wood's lab yesterday. The school is requesting that we pass around a sheet for donations, as I'm sure all of you would like nothing more than to spend your hard-earned cash on repairing the high school chemistry lab." He smiles, then claps his hands together. "I'll pass the sheet around, and then we can get started."

Brendon turns to Dallon. It's now or never.

"Hey, so, I wanted to apologize for-"

"Don't bother." 

"Uh, what?" Brendon asks, furrowing his brows. Maybe Dallon misheard him.

"I said, don't bother. I don't talk to people like you."

Brendon feels sick to his stomach. The weight, that familiar weight is choking up his throat and making it hard to breathe.

"What the fuck do you mean by that?" he demands, not bothering to be polite.

"I don't talk to homosexuals."

Brendon just stares at him for a moment.

Out of everything, that was the last possible thing he would've expected Dallon to say.

"So you're one of _those_ ," Brendon finally says. "Let me guess. One of those righteous religious bastards. It's in the _Bible_ , it's a _sin_..." His tone is mocking, defensive. Too defensive.

"It's wrong. It's against my religion," Dallon says calmly, but a hint of anger is threatening to break his peaceful facade.

"Fuck your religion."

They don't talk after that.

Brendon tries not to think about it, but the reminder of what Dallon said gnaws at him all day. Homophobia was never really something Brendon had to confront. Sure, it happened with strangers sometimes, but his friends had all been cool with it previously. He'd never met someone who said something like "I don't talk to homosexuals" to his _face_.

God, Brendon suddenly hates Dallon.

What was once weird tension between them had become animosity, and whatever happiness Brendon had felt was long gone. Even Pete doesn't cheer him up in 6th period.

"So, so, she was on the table, right, and I had this hockey stick and some lube..." Pete's saying during a lecture, but then his words fade off into nothing. "Dude, are you okay?"

Brendon nods.

"Are you sure?"

Brendon nods.

Pete chews on his lower lip for a while. "You should come over after school."

For the third time, Brendon nods.

And after the 6th period bell rings, Brendon finds himself in Pete's beat-up car. Pete drives him to his house, where Brendon is greeted by two adorable puppies.

For the moment, all his troubles are washed away.

"Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" coos Brendon, rubbing a puppy's ear and allowing it to lick his face vigorously.

"I am!" announces Pete, tossing a soda in Brendon's general direction. He cries out when it hits his back, but laughs anyway.

Pete's efforts do eventually help cheer Brendon up. He's smiling again, and he even finds himself engrossed in Pete's strange tales.

Man, Pete is weird.

But he likes him anyway, and he finds solace in Pete's poster-decorated room. It smells like weed and sweat, but Brendon doesn't mind it. It's homey, almost. Calming, despite the rock music playing from his CD player.

Being with Pete is a good distraction, and several hours pass before Brendon realizes he needs to head home.

"Listen," Pete says earnestly when Brendon pulls open the front door to leave, "You come over whenever you want to, okay?"

He doesn't let Brendon protest.

"Whenever you want to." Pete demands, looking at Brendon.

"Thank you," Brendon says honestly, and he's glad for this. He's glad that Pete saw that something was wrong, and took it upon himself to fix it.

Maybe Pete wasn't as happy-go-lucky and naive as he seemed.


	7. Blood in the Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR LEAVING COMMENTS/KUDOS!!!!!!
> 
> Seriously. Thanks. My poor little heart can't take all this kindness.
> 
> Sorry in advance for what's going to happen in this chapter.

Brendon's at home, like usual.

It'd been a few days since The Dallon Incident (technically, The Second Dallon Incident if he's being specific) and so far, he's managed to avoid him. It's hard, especially because they have first period together, but he hasn't looked him in the eyes once. And Brendon considers that an accomplishment. Maybe if he avoids him for the rest of the year, he won't have to ever think about the words he said to him again.

All he has to do is survive senior year.

And with the help of Pete, and maybe Patrick, he won't feel so alone. Pete is a godsend, Brendon decides. He always tries to include Brendon in his various activities, or at the very least, he chatters to him during 6th period or calls him up after school, and that's all Brendon could ever ask for.

But sometimes, that bastard of a man takes it upon himself to personally torture Brendon. He groans as he recalls the phone call they had minutes before.

"Hey man," Pete's voice had chirped cheerfully from the receiver, "So Patrick's having a study group over, kinda, sorta, he invited pretty much everyone in our English class, well, everyone _cool_ that is-"

Pete paused to inhale. "So anyways," he said, "I don't really think we'll be doing much studying. But band practice got cancelled, so I said yeah. Wanna come? I can pick you up."

Brendon had blinked, considered it, and said yes without a second thought. Pete promised to be there in twenty minutes, and only then did Brendon realize that he really did not want to do this.

Sure, socializing is fine and dandy, but it's Sunday, he thinks, and he's exhausted. He couldn't sleep the night before, and his eyes are still sleepy and threatening to close for good every time he blinks. To deal with Pete and a group full of people, he'd need at least another few hours of rest.

But he doesn't have a few hours. He has minutes, thanks to That Bastard Pete Wentz.

Those minutes are just enough time for Brendon to pull on a jacket, shave his stubble, brush his teeth, and promise his mother that he'll be home in time to babysit his sisters tonight before Pete shows up, knocking at the door.

"We're going to be _late_!" he yells with enough force to make Brendon wince.

"I thought this was a study group," Brendon grumbles as he slams the door shut and follows Pete to his car. "It's perfectly acceptable if we're late to a study group."

"Well, but Patrick's ordering pizza," Pete explains, and before Brendon has the chance to even buckle his seatbelt, he's pulling out of Brendon's driveway and zooming down the street.

Pete Wentz does not obey the laws of traffic whatsoever, Brendon realizes. He's a hurricane, and the pedestrians and cars along the way are just collateral damage. Thankfully, he doesn't crash the car, and they're within a few blocks of Patrick's house when he finally slows down.

"So who's gonna be there?" Brendon asks, pulling at a loose thread at the seams of his jeans.

"I have no idea."

"Cool. Thanks, Pete." Brendon says dryly.

"Well, okay-" Pete pulls to the side of the road and parks in front of Patrick's house. "Patrick, obviously. Spencer... uh, Josh. Josh, and Debby, I think. And Ashley, dunno if you've met her. And Dallon, and Ryan, I think."

"Dallon?"

Pete must've heard something in his tone, because he turns to look at him. "Yeah. Why, what's up? Do you not like him or something?"

"It's, uh- it's a long story."

"Well," Pete says, clapping him on the back, "just ignore him. You'll be fine."

Brendon nods, but he doesn't believe him in the slightest. With a heavy sigh, he hops out of the car and follows Pete to the front door. Pete opens it without knocking, barging in like a goddamn freight train.

Patrick is on the sofa, face partially covered by a baseball cap tilted over one eye and a book face-down on his lap. Josh, with newly-dyed bright blue hair, is right next to him, his arm around his girlfriend. Debby, Brendon remembers. While Pete slaps Patrick on the head affectionately, Brendon scans the rest of the room. Spencer, Pete's friend, is melting into a lounge chair, hands fiddling with a handheld video game. On the opposite side of the L-shaped couch, Ryan is lounging with his feet on the coffee table, occasionally peering over and critiquing Spencer's video game skills.

There's no sign of Dallon, and Brendon is immensely relieved. Thank God Pete was wrong.

He realizes he's been standing there awkwardly for too long, so he lowers himself down on the couch next to Ryan and near Debby.

Just then, the door from the kitchen swings open, and Dallon fucking Weekes walks out, a glass of water in hand. His face is calm at first, and then he spots Brendon.

Brendon is dead silent.

As Dallon walks over, he stops in front of Brendon, face impassive as he stares down at him. Jesus, he's tall, Brendon thinks. Almost inhumanly so.

"That's my spot," Dallon says slowly.

"Okay," Brendon squeaks out, and he scrambles off of the couch, face burning.

So much for avoiding him, he supposed.

He makes his way over to Pete, determined to never look Dallon Weekes in the eyes again.

There's really no room on the couch, so he loiters behind it until Pete notices him.

"Hey, dude," his face brightens, "You want pizza? It's in the kitchen."

Brendon takes this opportunity to escape to the kitchen immediately, and there he stays for nearly ten minutes, nursing a piece of pizza. He's alone until a girl with shockingly short pink hair comes in, plate in hand.

"Hey." Her voice is clear. Commanding. Like she could order him to drop to his knees and beg and he would do it instantly. "You're Brendon?"

He merely nods.

She smiles. "I'm Ashley. I've heard a lot about you from Pete."

"Hopefully all good things," he says, and he realizes his voice is still a little shaky.

"Don't worry. He thinks you're great. Why aren't you out there?" She motions in the general direction of the living room.

He clears his throat. "I, uh-" He falters. "It's..."

"I get it," Her voice is kind. Forgiving. "They're all kinda overwhelming sometimes. Especially if you don't know them very well."

Brendon thinks back to the conversations he overheard. They were all such a tight knit group. Josh and Debby were inseparable. Ryan was untouchable, seeing as he was Dallon's friend. Spencer was isolated and intimidating. They were all so damn scary.

He laughs, just a little bit. "Yeah. Overwhelming is the right word."

"I just got here, but I could go for a smoke." Her hazel eyes are scanning him. Scrutinizing him. "Wanna come?"

He finds himself agreeing, and she grabs a piece of pizza before leading him through the living room and down a hallway, then through a sliding glass door.

They sit on the edge of Patrick's patio, and she pulls out her lighter. She doesn't make eye contact as she says, "So I heard that you're gay."

He chokes on his own spit, just a little bit.

"Where'd you hear that from?" he asks, as casually as he can manage. He'd only mentioned it in passing at that diner. He wondered how she'd found out.

"Pete."

That made sense.

"Do you have a problem with it, then?" he says after a moment.

"Well, no, seeing as I'm a lesbian."

For the second time, Brendon chokes.

"Nice," he says approvingly.

"But I do't go around advertising it, because, you know.." She motions with her cigarette.

Brendon thinks back to Dallon and what he said to him, "Yeah. I know. It's a lot worse here than it was in LA."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I- I dated some guys. I kept it on the down low, but- you know, my close friends knew. They didn't care."

"Must've been nice."

Brendon is silent for a minute until he finally says, "Yeah."

He doesn't inquire further on the subject, and she doesn't either. They sit there, in the quietness of Patrick's backyard, and Brendon honestly feels comfortable with her.

Maybe it's because she's so bold. Maybe it's because they have something in common. Either way, her presence is calming.

Finally, Brendon starts to sweat, and he decides he wants to go back and enjoy the AC now that he's a bit braver, and prepared to face Dallon and the group once again.

He stands up, and she looks at him inquiringly.

"I'll see you," he says, and she nods goodbye. He pulls open the sliding glass door, sighing at the blast of cool air.

He's rubbing his eyes when he hears the creak of a door, and then a body slams into him.

He's knocked off balance, and for a moment, he's disoriented.

"Watch where you're going," a voice snaps, and Brendon opens his eyes to see Dallon glaring at him and the bathroom door swinging shut.

"You bumped into me," Brendon points out.

Dallon scoffs. "Whatever."

As he heads off, Brendon can't help but to mumble, "So you couldn't at least apologize?"

Dallon turns back to look at him, and stares at him for a solid few seconds. "Why would I?"

Brendon huffs, "I don't know, maybe it wouldn't kill you to be decent to people once in a while?"

"I _am_ decent."

"Yeah? Then why do you treat me like shit just because.. what? I'm gay?" The words are pouring out of Brendon now. His resentment, his anger, it's fueling everything.

Dallon is silent.

"Why do you have such a problem with me?"

"I don't."

"Yeah, then why do you look at me like that? Like I'm a freak?"

"Because you are," Dallon hisses, and Brendon's not even shocked.

"I'm gay," Brendon tells him, "I'm not a monster. I'm _homosexual_. I like men. Is it that hard for you to wrap your head around?"

"It's wrong." Dallon spits, like poison, like venom, like he wants to see Brendon burn. "It's a disease. You're sick, Brendon. You're sick, and you need help. And I'm not going to enable you by being _nice_."

"It's a disease?" Brendon laughs. "It's a fucking disease, huh? You afraid I'm gonna infect you?"

Dallon flinches. "I'm straight."

Brendon laughs again, and there's something manic in his voice when he says, "No. No, I don't think so. I bet you're just secretly gay, you like dick, and you're afraid, you're _afraid_ -"

Dallon punches him. The air is knocked out of his lungs, and he's doubled over, gasping for breath as his eyes water. Blood is dripping from his nose, he can feel it. It's seeping down his chin, dripping onto his clothes and onto Patrick's expensive floor. It's everywhere. His hands are shaking, and when he glances down, they're dripping in scarlet. Drops of blood decorate the carpet around his shoes. His eyes are burning. His nose throbs.

He's crying, he realizes. He's crying. Tears mix with blood. He kneels down onto the carpet, lungs begging for air, but he can't breathe. He doesn't even know if Dallon is still there. All he knows is the burning pain and the suffocating blood. It's on his lips, it's on the tip of his tongue; he can taste that metallic bitterness that makes him want to puke. His shirt is soaked, his limbs are trembling, and he doesn't think he can stand up ever again.

He can't breathe.

He can't fucking breathe.


	8. Fluorescent Adolescent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . (\\__/)  
>     ⠀  (•ㅅ•)  
> 　＿ノ ヽ ノ＼ __ people who leave  
> /　`/ ⌒Ｙ⌒ Ｙ　ヽ comments/kudos  
> ( 　(三ヽ人　 /　　 |  
> |　ﾉ⌒＼ ￣￣ヽ　 ノ     
> ヽ＿＿＿＞､＿＿_／  
> 　　 ｜( 王 ﾉ〈 (\\__/)  
> 　　 /ﾐ`ー―彡\ (•ㅅ•) me

Brendon's still gasping for breath as he staggers up to a standing position. Blood is still dripping down his chin.

He sees no sign of Dallon.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, squinting down at the blood smears before swallowing. He isn't sure if he's still crying, and honestly, he doesn't care if he is or not. He wants to get out of here.

So, without even stopping to consider what just happened, he stumbles down the hall. He doesn't quite know where the front door is; he thinks it's near the kitchen, maybe, so he does his best to find it. Unfortunately, he doesn't get far. He's in the middle of what looks like the living room when a voice stops him in his tracks.

"Brendon?"

Patrick is staring at him like he's just seen a ghost. Belatedly, Brendon realizes that he's still bleeding.

"Dude," Patrick says, "Dude, are you okay?"

Brendon takes a moment to reply. He's still dizzy, both from the pain and from processing what just happened. He still can't breathe.

"I'm fine," he says hoarsely. He clears his throat. "I'm fine. I just-" he waves his hand around, "Do you, do you have a towel or something?"

Patrick's still staring at him, but when Brendon speaks, he abruptly snaps out of it and nods. "Of course, of course," he says gently, stepping closer to Brendon and examining his injury.

"I'll be right back," he promises, and he leaves Brendon standing in the middle of the room -bleeding, still, bleeding on his own clothes and on the floor. He wishes he was anywhere but here. He wishes he was dead. Did he deserve this? Did he really deserve this?

Maybe it was punishment, maybe it was karma for.. for God knows what. Maybe he did deserve this.

Soon enough, Patrick returns with a first-aid kit and a handful of towels clutched in his fist. As he opens the kit, taking out bandages and cloth napkins to mop up the blood, he asks, "What happened?"

If it was anyone else but Patrick, Brendon wouldn't tell them, but Patrick was one of the few genuinely kind people he'd met here in Vegas. He'd never been anything but nice.

"Dallon punched me," he says simply.

"But- why?" Patrick's looking at him like he's an injured animal, like he might lash out at any minute.

"We argued."

"About..?"

Brendon sighs. "He thinks I should go to hell. Because, you know, I'm gay. Or whatever. I snapped at him, I think- I don't remember what I said, but, uh.." He frowns.

As he tries to make sense of his jumbled-up, foggy memories, Patrick dabs an alcohol wipe on his skin, and he flinches.

"I don't know what I said, but it wasn't nice. And I think he was mad, and he, uh, punched me."

Patrick doesn't reply for a moment, brows creased.

"Yeah, I- yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah. I'm sorry, Brendon. I know this isn't an excuse or anything, but he was raised Mormon, and his parents.." Patrick shrugs helplessly.

"That doesn't-"

"Yeah, I know," Patrick cuts him off. "I know, and I'm really sorry. You know how it is, uh- with, uh, gays. A lot of people aren't okay with homosexuals, even if is the 21st century and, uh- we should be past that by now, I know, but.."

Brendon is silent.

"Your nose isn't broken," Patrick says optimistically, "You'll be fine. Just some bruising."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

Brendon glances over at the mirror on the wall. He looks terrible. The circles under his eyes are purple and prominent, and his nose itself is swollen and bruised. But all the blood is gone, and he's sure it would've looked a lot worse if Patrick hadn't taken care of him.

"I'm gonna go home," Brendon tells him before Patrick can say anything else, "Tell Pete I don't need a ride."

Patrick looks uneasy. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Brendon promises. "Thank you so much."

Blinking away the remnants of his tears, he leaves, finding the front door in only a short amount of time. He almost wishes he could've asked Pete for a ride, but that would've meant going back into the living room, and he couldn't bear seeing Dallon. He couldn't bear everyone seeing the state of his face, and asking him what happened and if he's okay.

Because he is definitely not okay.

It takes an hour to walk home. By the time he pushes open his door, the soles of his feet burn from the hot pavement, and sweat is dripping down his neck. He decides to shower, if only to metaphorically cleanse himself of what just happened. Plus, there's still blood everywhere. His clothes will have to be washed. His shoes are fucked.

He doesn't even want to think about all the blood Patrick would have to clean up in that hallway where Dallon punched him.

It's barely even dinnertime, but he goes to bed. His mother and sisters don't bother checking on him as he slams his door shut and flops onto the bed, eyes shut already. He wants to puke.

When he finally falls asleep, it's maybe 6pm. His dreams are restless and uncomfortable, and he feels like shit when he wakes up. Birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and he wants to die.

Glancing over at the clock, he realizes that school starts in 20 minutes. He's missed the bus, that's for sure. He doesn't want to go to school, anyway, so he lies back down, promising himself that he'll go the next day.

He doesn't go the next day. Of course he doesn't. The swelling has only gotten worse, and he looks like how he feels- pure garbage. However, on the 3rd day, his mother finally forces him to go.

"What happened, Brendon?" she asks for the 3rd time that morning as she drives him to school.

He merely shakes his head, mumbling for the 3rd time that he tripped.

Sure, it was a cowardly move for him to stay home 2 days in a row, but he couldn't have faced anyone. And now, Pete's gonna be asking where he went, and Brendon won't even know what to say. He could tell him the truth. But it's embarrassing, almost. Dallon beat him up. Dallon, the tall, gangly Mormon with a penchant for large sweaters and a knack for Chemistry.

Brendon doesn't want to get out of the car, but he does anyway. Grimacing as he shoulders his backpack, he prays that today will end quickly.

As the bell rings and he walks into Chemistry, he cringes internally as he sees the stares of his classmates as they notice his bruised and purpled skin.

He sees Dallon.

Oh, God, he sees Dallon.

He wishes he could read his expression, but there's nothing there. Just cold, blank nonchalance.

Mr. Knight starts talking as he sits down, but Brendon tunes him out.

God, he fucking hates Vegas.

Dallon shifts next to him, and Brendon automatically looks over. Their eyes don't meet.

Brendon swallows, and he looks down at his shaking hands.

The class, surprisingly, goes well. Aside from Mr. Knight's Chemistry jokes and Dallon's presence next to him, nothing is particularly horrible. He's even able to dash out the door without making eye contact with Dallon again.

Now the only person he has to deal with is Pete.

He has until 6th period to formulate a plan. Does he tell him what happened? Does he just say he tripped? Does he stay completely silent and hope he never mentions it?

As he sits on the curb and eats a PB&J sandwich for lunch, he decides that he'll just pretend that nothing happened. So he sits there, he listens to Joy Division, and he hopes that Pete won't even mention it.

Pete, of course, mentions it.

"Dude, are you okay?" he exclaims in 6th period, loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Shit. Brendon cringes.

"I, uh-"

"Patrick told me what happened."

Brendon decides he's not going to say anything.

"I'm sorry, dude."

He still says nothing.

"He's Mormon, and his parents, they-"

"Yeah, I know. Patrick told me."

"I'm sorry." Pete says. Brendon doesn't know if it's genuine or not. "Listen, do you wanna come over school?"

Brendon sighs. He doesn't even consider it. "No, no, I... no. I appreciate the offer, though."

"Okay."

And it's as simple as that. Pete goes on to ramble about God knows what, and Brendon goes on to ignore him. He loves the guy, he really does, but he just wants to be alone.

However, later that night, he remembers what loneliness feels like again, and he wishes he'd taken Pete up on his offer. The silence of his room is deafening. It's too warm for a September night, far too warm. But he supposes that it's just one of the many perks of living in a fucking desert.

He groans, and closes his eyes. Why couldn't he go back home? Home, where he knew everyone and where he was _happy_. So what if he was safer in Vegas away from his father? He still resents his mother for taking them away- to Vegas, of all places.

A fresh start, she'd said.

And look where he is now. Alone in a cramped room, with a bruised nose and bloodstains on his shoes.

His mother makes him take the bus the next day. "It'll help you get back into the rhythm of things," she'd said, ushering him out the door and handing him a packed lunch like he was still a fucking child, "Besides, I can't drive you every day, you know."

Brendon doesn't reply to that.

Seeing as he has no desire to see Dallon, he's ten minutes late to Chemistry.

"Brendon, Brendon," Mr. Knight tsked as Brendon walked in. "Care to explain why you're late?"

"No," he says, and Mr. Knight looks taken aback.

"No?"

"No." Brendon confirms.

The entire class is silent, and then Mr. Knight claps his hands together.

"Well, then! Brendon, sit down. As I was saying.."

Thank God that Mr. Knight is kind enough to put up with his shit.

He manages to survive until lunch, luckily. He's walking to his locker to grab his pre-prepared lunch when The Bastard of All Bastards approaches him.

"Brendon," Pete says, "Brendon, you should come sit with us."

Brendon glances up. "Who's us?" he asks slowly. If "us" included Dallon and his crew, Brendon would punch Pete.

"Spence, Ash, if she hasn't skipped yet, Josh and Debby, and Ian, I think."

Brendon exhales. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

Pete, much like a giddy schoolgirl, practically drags Brendon over to the cafeteria. There, he's greeted by a table of Pete Wentz's friends, most of whom he's met before.

He sits next down to Ashley and Spence, because he really does not feel up to dealing with Josh and Debby's lovey-dovey shit, and he really doesn't know Ian at all.

"Where'd you get that from?" Ashley asks, nodding to his face.

Brendon sighs. "It's a-"

"-long story," she finishes, smiling.

"Yeah."

She doesn't argue, and instead slides her tray of food over to him.

"Here," she tells him, "Have some fries. They suck ass, but you get used to them. I offered some to Spence, but-"

"I ate three burgers," Spencer chimes in, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Brendon thinks he's probably high, judging from.. well, a) the overwhelming smell and b) that particular look in his eyes that Brendon knows too well. Ah, just one of the perks of dating a stoner for a year, he supposes. (God, Ryan was horrible.)

Brendon takes a fry, and decides they aren't that bad.

"So," Pete says, "Who's going to Homecoming?"

Josh's arm is around Debby when he says, "We are."

"Yeah, no." Ashley shakes her head. "I'm not. But, I think I'm gonna do a party afterwards, so.."

Pete's eyes light up. "Really? Who have you told?"

"Nobody, yet. But people will come." She smiles. "They always do."

"Your parents are okay with you hosting a party?" Brendon asks Ashley, who's chewing on her fingernails like her life depends on it.

"No," she says simply, "But they won't know. I'll make sure of it."

Brendon decides not to ask any more questions, not particularly wanting to know what Ashley does to "make sure" of things.

"Brendon, you should come!" exclaims Pete, like this is the best idea ever.

He starts to say no, but is already interrupted by Pete's next sentence.

"I'll drive you and everything, I swear. It'll be fun."

"Pete, I don't really-"

"C'mon, man. You gotta get out of the house."

"I am out of the house. Right now."

Pete sighs. "You know what I mean. Please?" He looks at him with puppy-dog eyes.

Brendon feels bad, so he nods. He'll leave early, he decides.

Maybe he might actually have a good time.


	9. Where Did The Party Go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating! I'm trying my best. I swear.
> 
> This chapter is the longest/most eventful one yet. I hope that makes up for my inactivity!

The general rule about high school is that it sucks.

No matter if you're in 4th period math, or you're at lunch with your friends, or you're crying in a bathroom stall, it sucks. There's no escaping it. Every second you're there, there's always that constant pressure. That _thing_ weighing you down, whatever it is- your upcoming test, or the homework you didn't do, or the relationship drama that never fucking ends- it's inescapable.

There's really no way to run from it. No matter what you do, you're dealing with _something_.

High school really, really, really fucking sucks.

Brendon, unfortunately, is exceedingly familiar with this fact. He wishes he could escape. He really, really does. But it's 3rd period, it's Friday, and he has to deal with the fact that he agreed to go to a goddamn party. This - next to his bruised nose and his homesickness - is the _thing_ weighing him down, the barbell on his chest.

He sighs, leaning back in his desk and closing his eyes. Normally, he'd be thrilled that he has something to look forward to. That he has beer to drink and friends to talk to. But the fact is, Brendon's sick of people. He has been, ever since.. ever since he left LA. Even with Pete, and Patrick, and Ashley, and everyone else he's made friends with, he still feels lonely. And the issue with Dallon isn't helping.

Brendon winces as he reaches up to touch his nose. Surprisingly, it's mostly healed at this point. The bruising is still there, of course, but it's faded over the course of the past few days. It's still slightly painful to touch, unless he takes Tylenol or something that'll provide at least a little bit of relief. He's gotten a lot of stares, a lot of weird looks. But it's nothing he's not used to. After all, he was the new kid a month ago - still is - and he's a senior. Who transfers to a new school their senior year?

Brendon, apparently.

The bell rings and he wants to cry with relief. Thank God. One more class, and then it's lunch, and maybe Pete will cheer him up. He plugs in his earbuds, clicking his iPod's buttons until a song he likes comes on. He's shouldering his backpack as he walks out into the hallway, and then he sees _him_.

Dallon Weekes. Laughing. His arm around a girl. He looks so happy. So carefree. Like he didn't just knock Brendon's lights out a few days ago. Why does life have to be so unfair?

Brendon's nose twinges in pain, as if to remind him yet again what Dallon did to him. Dallon glances over at him, and he feels his cheeks burn. Quickly, Brendon glances down. This, he decides, is bullshit.

"Who's Dallon's girlfriend?" he asks Pete at lunch, who looks surprised.

"Breezy? Jesus. Is he still with her?"

Brendon sighs. "I saw them in the hallway today. They looked happy."

Pete snorted, and in the middle of inhaling a cheeseburger, he says, "Yeah, no. They argue a lot. It's all Dallon ever talks about. Breezy did this, Breezy did that. I'm sick of it, to be honest."

"Why are you friends with him?" Brendon presses. He doesn't know why he's still asking about him. Why should he care?

"Well," Pete says, "I'm not, really. Patrick is, mainly, that's why he hangs out with us. He's actually a decent guy, Brendon, I'm sure he just.." Pete shrugged. "I'm sure he just lost his temper on Sunday. Seriously, he's a good dude. He's into comics, he-"

"No offense, Pete," Brendon cuts him off, "But I'm not going to forgive him."

"I get that. Yeah. I understand."

They don't really talk after that, and Brendon feels bad for bugging Pete so much. But when Pete picks him up for Ashley's party the next day, he doesn't seem irritated at him in the slightest. In fact, he's buzzing with energy. Literally. His body is vibrating. Brendon figures he's high. It's almost dusk, and Brendon squints against the bright desert sunset as he climbs into Pete's car.

"So how many people are gonna be there?" he questions, buckling his seatbelt and making sure his wallet is tucked into his pocket, just in case he ends up drunk and passed out in a ditch. He reaches over to turn down the volume on Pete's car radio; he's playing Metallica far too loud, and Brendon feels like his eardrums are going to burst.

"The entire school."

Brendon checks to see if Pete's joking, but he's not, for once in his goddamn life.

"But she's not.." He falters. "She's not popular."

"Yeah, no, but seriously," Pete says, "Everyone comes. Her parents are rich as hell, dude. The house is decked out. There's free beer."

Brendon considers this. He can understand why teenagers would be attracted to free beer and big houses.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

"Yeah, yeah. It sucks for her, you know, because everyone's using her, in a way? But she does it anyway. And it's senior year, she won't have to put up with those crackheads after this. It's the finale. One last hurrah." Pete says in one breath, and Brendon wonders how, even with the chemical assistance, Pete's able to talk like that. Like he's firing out words like a machine gun, one after the other.

Pete pulls onto the freeway.

"Where are we going?" Brendon asks, because he's never even been in this area before. They're miles away from their high school and the shitty neighborhood Brendon lives in.

"You'll see," Pete says with a mysterious smile that Brendon doesn't like one bit.

They drive for a while, enough time for the Metallica CD to finish and enough time for them to listen to half of a Green Day album. They pull off the freeway and turn onto a private road, one that's winding up a huge hill. It looks like something Brendon would see in LA. The house at the top of the hill is an even bigger surprise. It's huge, it's modern, and it's disgusting. He wonders how Ashley's parents got this money, and why she isn't popular when she easily could be flaunting her cash.

There are cars parked all down the huge driveway, and even more are filing in behind Pete and Brendon.

Pete notices Brendon looking around, and he says, "Yeah. I know. And most people are still at the dance. You haven't seen the half of it yet."

With that, they park and walk up to the house. Booming, pounding music reverberates from inside, and Brendon smiles at how it feels in his chest. Deep, echoing, like there's a second heart beating right next to his. He loves it. Always has. It's his favorite part of parties and concerts- that feeling in his core that he could never replicate anywhere else.

Pete pulls open the door, and Brendon is plunged into a world of sound. As Pete shouts something indistinct and disappears into the crowd, Brendon's left standing alone.

Is this what the real Vegas is like? Noisy, chaotic, and lonelier than ever?

Carefully, he navigates his way through the crowd.

"Hey, where's the kitchen?" he asks a girl nearby.

She shouts at him to repeat the question, and when he does, she points him towards a hallway, and as he goes down it, he catches sight of Patrick.

"Hey, dude!" he yells, loud enough to be heard over the music, hopefully.

Patrick's face lights up when he hears him, and just as they make eye contact, a boy bumps into him.

Beer splashes down his shirt, soaking a small portion of it in less than a second. It's disgusting. It's worse than water, too; it's beer, it's sticky, and the smell makes him crinkle up his nose.

"Hey, what the-" Brendon starts to exclaim, but the boy's already pushing past him. He'd caught a glimpse of his face, and it doesn't seem to be anyone he knows. He's tall, not as tall as.. Brendon winces when he thinks about Dallon. And he's got this fluffy hair, this curly brown hair that's like a model's. But he's not Brendon's type.

Patrick comes up to him, grimacing. "Rough," is all he says. He shifts his weight back and forth, hands in his pockets and shoulders tense. He doesn't look comfortable, not in the slightest.

"Who was that?" Brendon asks, turning around to glare at the boy's retreating back.

"Tyler Joseph," Patrick says with a deep sigh. "Basketball team. Major A-hole."

Brendon and Patrick watch as Tyler leans on a wall next to a pretty blonde girl. She's smiling brightly, and it's clear she's in love with Tyler when he kisses her on the cheek and her entire face lights up.

"Jenna Black," Patrick says without prompting from Brendon, "Cheerleader."

"Typical."

They stand there for a moment, and only then does Brendon really realize who he's talking to. This is Patrick, the same Patrick that's always studying in the library or getting beaten up by jocks. Or hanging out with Dallon.

"Why are _you_ here?" he asks Patrick. "This doesn't seem like your.. uh, scene."

Patrick sighs again. "Yeah, no. It's not. But some friends said they'd be here, so, you know, I figured.. It's senior year. I should experience this at least once."

"In my opinion," Brendon tells him, wringing out the beer-soaked portion of his shirt, "this isn't worth it. Everyone here, or almost everyone, is.."

"Assholes," Patrick finishes for him, and Brendon nods before the glasses-adorned kid keeps talking. "Yeah, yeah. I know. I've gone to school with these morons for the better part of my life. But I thought maybe this would be like the movies, or something, and maybe I'd miraculously have a good time." Patrick rolls his eyes. "Obviously not, I guess."

"Well, where are your friends?"

"I don't know. Ryan said he was here, but I haven't found him yet. Jesus. He has blue hair, he should be easy to spot."

Brendon is about to reply when a hurricane collides into him, and he immediately loses his balance.

That hurricane, of course, is Ashley.

"Hey!" she exclaims, her smile all sparkly white teeth. "How are you guys doing?"

"Great," Brendon lies, "Nice party."

"Thanks! And nobody's even here yet. You'll see how insane it gets in about.." She checks her watch. "Oh, an hour or so."

"What's in an hour or so?" Brendon whispers to Patrick as Ashley zips off to the kitchen.

Patrick, it seems, is still staring at Ashley, bewildered by the lightning-fast encounter.

"God, that girl is like Pete. Only worse," he says, more to himself than to Brendon. Then he shakes his head, snapping himself out of it. "What? Sorry."

Brendon repeats the question.

"Oh, Homecoming ends in an hour." he says as if it's obvious.

Brendon mumbles something incoherent in reply, and settles back to lean against the wall, hands in his pockets. Seeing as Pete probably isn't planning to leave anytime soon, he figures, it looks like it'll be a long night. At least he'd have Patrick, though.

Exactly thirty seconds later, Ryan taps Patrick on the shoulder, and the two have a discussion that Brendon absolutely cannot hear in the slightest. Patrick then leans over to Brendon and says, "Hey, dude, we're gonna go find Spencer," and they both disappear into the crowd without a second thought. Brendon blinks, then shakes his head. Goddammit. He'd lost his one ally. His one friend in this hellhole.

Well, of course, that wasn't completely accurate. He knows people here. The only question is, how is he going to find them? Pete's off drinking, probably, so all he has to do is find the source of the beer - the kitchen, which was the place he'd originally set off to find before he bumped into Patrick. So he goes down the hallway that he'd been directed to earlier, and after some wrong turns, he finds himself in one of the largest kitchens he'd ever seen. There are _three_ fucking refrigerators, which to Brendon, seems like overkill. He can understand two, maybe. Maybe. He thinks back to his own three-bedroom house and their portable mini-fridge that served as their main food storage, and with the softest of sighs, he opens one of the fridges and pulls out a beer.

As he popped it open and took a sip, he glanced around for Pete. No sign of him yet. Brendon wishes he wasn't so alone. Back in LA, parties were a thing to be revered. Saturday nights were the best days of the week. And now here he is, nursing a beer alone in a kitchen with three goddamn refrigerators. It's truly depressing.

He's not keeping track of time, exactly, but he's been in the kitchen for about fifteen minutes before he registers someone's presence next to him.

"Hey," Spencer says. He, too, has a beer in his hand, but he seems to have forgotten about it. "Have you seen Pete?"

Brendon lets out an exasperated laugh. "Yeah, no, I wish. I was hoping he'd be here in the kitchen, but no luck."

"Damn." Spencer ponders this for a minute.

"Ryan and Patrick are looking for you, by the way." Brendon informs him, but Spencer doesn't seem to hear him. He's staring down at the can in his hand with a contemplative look on his face, and after a second, he sighs.

"Are you sure you don't know where Pete is?" he asks.

Brendon wonders why Spencer needs to find Pete so badly. Something seems off with him. He's shaky. A little too off balance. Maybe because he's drunk, or maybe not.

"No, sorry." He shakes his head, noting the way Spencer's face falters.

Without replying, Spencer smiles a tight-lipped smile at Brendon, and then he leaves, no doubt in search of Pete. This leaves Brendon with a mystery to think about. There was definitely something wrong, but for the life of him, he couldn't pinpoint it. He should've asked, but Spencer had disappeared too quickly for him to say anything.

And then Brendon is left alone in the crowd again.

At least watching the people is interesting. It's strange, to see so many people and not recognize most of them. He sees Tyler and his girlfriend again, and he has the urge to "accidentally" spill his beer on him as he walks past. But he can't bring himself to do it, even though his own shirt is still somewhat sticky from Tyler's beer spillage.

He sees girls with too-short skirts and caked-on makeup. He sees boys with muscle tees and spiked-up hair, sweat radiating off their bodies in waves. Testosterone boys and harlequin girls. He's almost disgusted by the sight, even though this time last year, he would've been one of those boys, pretending to seduce one of those girls to keep up appearances.

People change.

After a while, he decides he's had enough. Pete's obviously not coming any time soon, and the crowds of teenagers have finally started to pour in from Homecoming. Some are in suits and dresses, while others have ditched their formal clothing for sluttier, more revealing outfits. He's sick of it, so he leaves, weaving his way through the crowd. He doesn't know where he's headed, exactly, so he bumps into strangers until the crowd guides him to a patio outside.

Ashley has a pool, it seems. He's surprised nobody's fallen in yet. But the night is young, the sun is setting, and the more people drink, the more likely it is there will be a few accidents. He admires the way the lights reflect in the clear blue water for a moment, lost in the sight as he wonders what he should do. He's a little drunk, maybe, thanks to the beer he'd finished up earlier. However, the fresh air helps him clear his head, think things through, and focus.

Finally, he perches himself on a ledge near a decorative waterfall, and fumbles in his pockets for his iPod. Music might help. At least he wouldn't feel as lonely if he's listening to Green Day. But just as he's untangling his earbuds, he spots Pete. Thank God.

Brendon hops off the rock, shoving the iPod into his pocket and making his way over to Pete, who's vibrating at a high frequency. He's standing near a group of people, but when he sees Brendon approach, he greets him with a grin.

"Hey, dude!" Pete exclaims, and it's clear that he's drunk, or high, or both. "Hey, how's it going, man? Isn't this party _sick_? Listen, dude, I know you're not into chicks, but _fuck_ , man. There's this girl, she's a _bombshell_ , man, and I think she's into me, and holy fuck, I think I'm gonna get laid, which is _sick_ because it's been forever, and I've been itching to try -"

"Spare me the details," Brendon says with a wry smile. "I don't need to know."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Dude, listen, I gotta get going, but- hey, there's a Jacuzzi upstairs. It has a view of the city or whatever, I think. You should check it out, man! You'd like it. I think Ashley's up there." Pete informs him, shifting from one foot to another. He can't make eye contact with Brendon: in fact, he's unable to focus on a single spot for more than a second. Yeah, Brendon thinks, definitely high.

"I will," Brendon promises. He decides, fuck it, why not? It's not like he'd be doing anything else interesting. So after Pete disappears, Brendon goes back inside and climbs up a staircase. Upstairs, he finds several hallways, all branching out from each other. Doors line the halls, and he has no idea which one leads to the famed Jacuzzi. So he starts trying doors.

The first one leads to a bathroom. The second, an empty room. The third, nothing but several empty beer cans on the bed. He quietly shuts the door and continues his search.

Four more doors, and no luck. He's about to give up when he tries one last door at the end of the hall, and hallelujah, there's a Jacuzzi. But as soon as he steps inside, all the blood rushes to his face.

Ashley and a girl with long, dyed blonde hair are intertwined with each other. Ashley's on her lap, legs wrapped around the other girl's torso and hands in her hair. They're lost in their own world, drifting through space and time with nothing to keep them grounded. Despite how preoccupied they are, Ashley notices him almost immediately. Instead of being flustered, like Brendon is, she seems perfectly at ease with the situation, but the look in her eyes is more than a little mad.

"Bren-" she starts to say, but Brendon's already cutting her off with his apology.

"I'm- shit, sorry," Brendon apologizes, stammering and wishing he was literally anywhere else but here. "Sorry. Sorry."

He backs out of the room, slamming the door shut and darting off in embarrassment. Oh, God. Ashley would never want to speak to him again. He fumbles with another door handle, pulling it open and stepping out onto... a balcony?

The view is beautiful, he has to admit. And the fresh, cold air is doing wonders for the blush on his face. He leans on the balcony, staring out at the city laid out in front of him. The lights decorate the landscape like stars in the night sky - which is so congested with smog that he hadn't seen the real stars in months. But the cityscape is stunning. It reminds him of home, his real home, LA.

But it's eerie, almost, how Vegas is surrounded by desert. Off in the distance, he can see the cold, empty vastness of the sandy plains. It's so lonely, unlike the house he's currently in. The booming music and the chatter of people remind him that he's safe, that he's protected by the warmth of civilization. But out there? There's nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He's still staring out at the desert when he hears the door open, and he _assumes_ it's Ashley, about to tell him off for stumbling upon her and her lover, because if it were him, he'd definitely be mad. (But, to be fair, they should've locked the door). "Ashley, I-" he starts to say, turning around, but it's not Ashley that's standing in the doorway.

"My name is Dallon, you know," slurs the boy standing right in front of him. "Although, I do understand the mix-up. She and I look exactly alike. It's the- it's the hair." He laughs, a drunken chortle that doesn't match up with his impeccable, suited appearance. There's something unhinged about the way he looks, something off.

Brendon hasn't spoken to Dallon since The Incident, and _this_ is what he says to him? Admittedly, Dallon does seem to be under the influence. And he doesn't look like he's having the time of his life.

He distinctly remembers Pete promising that Dallon wouldn't be here.

Great. Just great.

"Jesus Christ," huffs Brendon. "You're drunk. Go away."

"You shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain." Dallon tells him. He's making eye contact with him. Something he hasn't done ever since he punched him in the face. Dallon stumbles over to him, leaning on the balcony next to Brendon.

"I said," Brendon demands, "Go away."

Dallon shakes his head, and only then does Brendon realize he's been crying. The tears stain his cheeks, and they've left marks on the white collar of his suit.

"I have nowhere else to go."

"This is a mansion," Brendon tells him. He's sick of this. He wants to be left alone, not harassed by a homophobic asshole who once punched him in the face. "There's plenty of places to go. Or just- _leave_ , Dallon. Go sleep until you're sober."

Dallon doesn't respond. He's staring down at the city, lips parted and glazed eyes unblinking. There's something empty about his expression. Like he's a puppy that's been kicked one too many times.

Brendon has no idea how to make him leave. He has no idea why he's still here. Shouldn't he have left as soon as he saw the balcony was occupied? By Brendon, no less? "Listen," he says, "There are better places to be right now. I'm a homo, remember? You don't want to be around me? You're afraid you'll catch the gay?" He laughs bitterly.

The other finally looks up at him. "I can't be alone," he pleads, tears shining in his ocean-blue eyes. "I can't. I can't."

"Go find someone else, then. Your girlfriend. Ryan. Patrick. Whoever." Brendon says simply. He knows that Dallon's hurt. But he doesn't know why, nor does he care. He's not going to comfort him.

"My girlfriend," Dallon repeats with a sniff. "My girlfriend cheated on me."

"Oh," Brendon says, understanding now. "Oh." He gets it. He gets it now. That's why Dallon's a sniffly mess. That's why he's drunk, even though he's Mormon and there should be no reason why he's drinking. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. That's not Brendon's problem, is it? He shouldn't clean up Dallon's messes for him.

"Please," Dallon begs. "Please. Just let me stay. I can't be alone. I can't."

"You punched me in the face!" he exclaims, finally letting his anger show. He's seeing red. He's shaking. "You fucking punched me in the face, you asshole! Go find someone else to cry on!"

"I'm sorry." Dallon says, looking at him with those big puppy eyes. "I'm sorry. I-"

Brendon doesn't think he heard him right. He laughs again, incredulous and disbelieving. "You're sorry? Seriously?"

"Yes," he says. "Yes. I am. Listen, Brendon, I.. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. Please let me stay."

"You didn't mean it?" spits Brendon. He knows it's not right to be cruel. He knows he should turn the other cheek, especially when Dallon is this distraught. But he hurt him. He hurt him, both mentally and physically, and Brendon's not even close to recovering from it. "Oh, shut the fuck up. You meant it. You attacked me. You punched me in the face."

"No, Brendon, please," begs Dallon. "Please. Please-"

"You nearly broke my nose!" yells Brendon, fists clenched. "You nearly broke my goddamn nose!" He's on his toes, screaming up at Dallon and wanting to make him hurt. Wanting to make him feel even an ounce of the pain Brendon felt.

"Brendon," Dallon breathes, "Brendon, please. Hear me out."

Maybe it's because Brendon's catching his breath, or maybe it's because he feels something, deep down that's telling him to stand down, but either way, he pauses. He doesn't relax, but he pauses.

Dallon takes the opportunity to start talking, and fast, like he's afraid Brendon will start screaming again. "Brendon, listen, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. You insulted me, and I know it's not right, but I was so angry, I was so angry. I wanted to hit you, and, and- then I did, and I felt better about it, but-" He swallows. "I didn't mean it, I swear. I was angry, and I didn't.. I didn't intend to hurt you."

"Well," Brendon says, but this time he's no longer yelling, "You did. Hurt me, that is."

"I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it. I'm so sorry. Whatever- whatever my religious views are, I know... I know I shouldn't have hurt you over it," Dallon says without pausing for breath. "Please forgive me."

Brendon's silent for a long moment. Maybe Dallon's only apologizing because he's drunk. Even if he means it, Brendon can't forgive him. He can't.

But maybe he can be a civil human being for once.

"I don't forgive you," he tells him, and he's doing his best to keep his voice level. "I don't. I'm sorry. Maybe if you apologize when you're sober, I'll consider it."

"Please," Dallon says. His voice is hoarse. "Please, Brendon. Please. I didn't mean it."

"Yeah? Yeah, okay, you didn't mean it. But my nose is still fucking bruised, isn't it?" Brendon says dryly. And so all attempts at being civil fly straight out the window.

"I'm sorry!" bursts out Dallon. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Okay? Brendon, please. I don't want to hurt you. I never did." He's staring down at Brendon, tears dripping down his face. And God, if it were a different situation, Brendon would've caved. He would've melted. He would've done anything for those puppy-dog eyes.

But he's not going to forgive him.

"No!" he hisses. Dallon's so close to him, they're so close, he can smell the alcohol on his breath and he can hear his heavy breathing. "No. I'm not fucking forgiving you. You hurt me. You called me sick. You called me disgusting. Go fuck yourself, Dallon! There's nothing, there's absolutely fucking _nothing_ you can do to make me forgive y-"

Dallon kisses him. He kisses him, and Brendon's mind goes blank, and holy shit, Dallon's lips are on his, and he could've sworn he's never felt more alive. He's melting against him. He's letting Dallon's body press against his, all hot and heavy, and all fire and dark, and all adrenaline and neon and starlight and oh, Brendon tastes infinity in his kiss. He's lost somewhere in time where there is no time. There's no way he can feel the cold, iron bar of the balcony pressing against his lower back, or the wind rushing past him, or anything that is not Dallon's lips and Dallon's hands and Dallon, Dallon, Dallon. He's everywhere, and nowhere, or somewhere in between.

There is something gentle about how he touches him. Like he's fragile, like he's something that might break. Like he's going to fall apart if Dallon isn't careful. There is something desperate about how he kisses him. Like he's starving, like Brendon is his oxygen. Like he can't possibly get enough of him.

There is something beautiful about the way Dallon's lips feel against his. It's nothing like anything he's felt before. It's electrifying, it's destructive, it's like Dallon is the flame that will consume Brendon whole.

But if he is fire, then oh, God, let Brendon burn alive. Let him be the gasoline. Let him go out in a blaze of glory.

Oh, Dallon will be the death of him, and he will go happily.

He pushes against him. He wants more. No, he _needs_ more. He craves him. He craves every inch of him. Oh, Lord, let him burn.

And then Dallon pulls away, and then Brendon makes eye contact with him.

"Oh, no," Dallon whispers in a low, broken voice.

Oh, no, indeed.


	10. I'm Sorry, I'm Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate to apologize yet again, but sorry for not updating! I need a schedule. That, or a way to beat writer's block.
> 
> If anyone has any tips on how to write faster/more efficiently, I'd be extremely grateful! This is the longest work I've ever written, and I'm still figuring out how to do this properly.
> 
> Anyways, sorry for the wait, here's Chapter 10!

Brendom can't breathe, not really. He's trying, really, he is; but the kiss stole the air from his lungs, and even if he could breathe, he wouldn't know what to say.

He's angry. He's hurt. He's confused. And he.. wants more.

He hates Dallon. He hates him. He hates how he's treated him, how he's senselessly cruel on the basis of religion, and how he's so completely, utterly unexplainable.

Why did he kiss him back?

But as he stares at him, as he exhales with wide eyes and takes in the sight of Dallon Weekes with messy hair and reddened lips, he thinks that he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Dallon's breathing heavily. He's shaking, too, hand trembling as he brushes it through his hair. He's stepping back, stumbling back towards the balcony doors with a panicked, desperate look in his eyes.

"I gotta go," he says- or, rather, he slurs, his words lazy and jumbled, "I gotta go. I gotta go."

Brendon doesn't know how to respond, but something inside of him acts on its own impulse, and he reaches out to grab Dallon's hand, or the sleeve of his jacket, or anything at all. Anything that could make him stay.

But Dallon was already leaving, and as he yanks the sliding glass door open, he trips over his own feet. Or maybe he passes out. Brendon's not really sure what's happening, but Dallon's falling to the floor, the glass door unopened, and his limbs splay out awkwardly. He doesn't seem to want to stand.

Brendon stares down at the heavily breathing, barely conscious body of Dallon Weekes, and he realizes that he's made a huge mistake. So instead of helping him up, instead of figuring out what the hell just happened, he steps over his body, he opens the door, and he leaves.

The world is spinning. He doesn't know why- maybe he's drunk? No. No, he hadn't had enough beer for that. Or maybe he's panicking, maybe he's spiraling, maybe he's losing his grip on reality, which seems more likely than him getting drunk over a single can of beer.

He doesn't even notice the door swinging open in front of him, not until Ashley bumps into him, a towel wrapped around her body and lipstick smudges on her chin.

She looks surprised. "Br-"

"Dallon's passed out on your balcony," he tells her, and then he pushes past her. Maybe, if things were different, he'd feel guilty about leaving her to deal with the situation. But he'd just kissed Dallon Weekes, and his life is going to hell.

He doesn't quite know where he's going. What does one do in this situation? It's not like he can head home, not unless he can find Pete and convince him to leave. And unfortunately, he knows that Pete won't want to leave until at least midnight. So, he thinks, he has nothing to do. Nowhere to go.

But he does have beer to drink.

Maybe, just maybe, if he's drunk enough, he'll forget what just happened.

So he heads downstairs, pushing his way past drunk teenagers and finding his way to one of the fridges.

It's certainly not a good solution. He definitely won't find much solace in alcohol. Nevertheless, he downs a can of beer in just under a minute.

And then another.

Goddammit, there's more beer on his shirt again.

He's grabbing the third can when he sees Pete- Pete, that bastard, with his arm around a blonde chick and a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"Brendon!" crows Pete, and as Brendon is pulled closer by the gravity of Pete Wentz's presence, he sees a hyper, too-alive energy in his eyes.

As a football player passes Pete a mostly-empty bag, the remains of a few pills still inside, Brendon knows what he could do.

"Pete," Brendon says, "Give me some."

Pete's face is blank for a moment before he understands.

"Brendon, darling," he declares, "I don't think you want to fuck with-"

"Pete," he pleads.

Maybe Pete understands that he's desperate, because he digs out the _tiniest_ white pill from inside the bag.

"You don't have to pay me," Pete says, and he sounds.. gentle. More gentle than Pete Wentz normally is. He drops the pill in Brendon's open palm, and he tells him to be safe before he disappears.

Now, Brendon doesn't have the faintest idea of what this pill is. So he swallows it and wanders outside.

This time, he doesn't go to the backyard. He walks out to the front, thinking that maybe, just maybe, there'd be less people. And for the most part, he's right- there's not a huge crowd, and he's able to find a bench draped with soft, glowing fairy lights.

"Pretty," he remarks to himself. The lights are too bright.

Way too bright.

At first, he thinks the pill did nothing. After all, he just feels nauseous, and he can't stop replaying the kiss in his mind. Goddammit. Please, please, please let the pill work, so he never has to have a single thought about Dallon Weekes ever again. But he sits there, and he sits there, and nothing happens.

Until he realizes he's bouncing his leg, and he can't stop trembling. His fingers tap out a beat on the side of his leg. He needs to move, he needs to do something, he can't just sit here. So he paces back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and dammit, this is the shittiest drug he's ever taken.

He wanted to stop thinking, but now he's just- thinking faster. Like everything is sped up. His brain is going to fucking explode. Everything is too bright, and holy fuck, the world is spinning.

Why does his stomach hurt so much?

His eyes squint as he registers a shape coming towards him.

"Leave me alone," he demands. He doesn't know who it is. He doesn't care.

"Brendon," the person says, and he realizes it's Patrick, "Brendon, are you okay?"

"Never been better," he says quickly. Too quickly.

"Pete told me to come find you, he-"

"He what?"

Patrick sighs. He looks tired. "He says the pills are laced. He doesn't know with what."

"Oh," says Brendon. "Oh, Jesus."

"You'll be fine," reassures Patrick. "He just said a few guys threw up, that's all, you'll-"

He's interrupted by Brendon puking his guts out onto the lawn. He tastes acid, and it's disgusting. Blindly, he stands back up, giving Patrick a large smile.

And then he doubles over again, Patrick watching as Brendon spews out everything he's consumed in the past twelve hours.

When he's done, when he's finally done, he starts coughing.

"Thanks for warning me," he tells Patrick, weakly grinning.

"Dude," Patrick says, "Dude, do you need..help? Can I do anything?"

Brendon looks up at him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Tell me everything you know about Dallon," he whispers.

So Brendon and Patrick end up sitting on the bench together, Brendon still trembling and Patrick looking at him like he's a bomb about to go off.

He doesn't ask why Brendon wants to know about Dallon.

"We've been best friends since elementary school," he begins. "He's.. we.. neither of us had friends. And, I don't know- we both liked nerdy stuff. Still do. He's into movies. He-"

"Why's he such an asshole?"

Patrick starts to say something, then shakes his head. "Well, he's not, really. He's.. I know you won't believe this, but he's nice. He cares about people, man. I don't know why he doesn't like you. I promise, he's a good person."

"Everything he's done so far has been the exact opposite," Brendon says dryly.

"Yeah? He punched you once, after you insulted him." Patrick's tone isn't even angry, but it's not nice, either. "And what else?"

"He said he wouldn't talk to 'my kind'."

"He's M-"

"Mormon, yeah, I know. That's no excuse."

Patrick sighs. "I know, but, listen. Listen, he's never even met a homosexual before, and his parents are.."

"I don't care."

Patrick continues as though Brendon didn't even interject. "His parents are horrible. They're fucking horrible. There's- the nice Dallon, there's the guy that I'm best friends with, and then there's the Dallon that his parents raised."

"He's his own person," Brendon says stubbornly. "He doesn't have to be an asshole just because his parents are."

"You haven't met his parents. Listen, he's a good dude. I swear. But he's a little fucked up, sometimes, and-"

"Stop defending him!"

"He's my best friend," says Patrick coldly. "I know him better than you do. His life is shitty. He's not a violent person. From what you told me, you were the one that started the fight that led to that punch. He's not even mean. He's conservative, he's stubborn, he was raised with outdated ideals, yeah, but he's not mean. Maybe if you got to know him, you'd understand."

Brendon wants to protest, he wants to say that Dallon had been nothing but cruel to him, but he can't. He thinks back to the day he met him. How shy he was. How he tried to start a conversation. He remembered his drunken apology, how genuine he seemed.

And he remembers how the only time Dallon had been outright vicious was when Brendon started the fight, when Brendon egged him on.

And fuck, maybe he feels a little guilty.

Even if Dallon is a homophobic piece of shit, maybe he doesn't deserve the anger Brendon is currently harboring towards him.

"Okay," he allows. "So he's not horrible. But, but he- he hates gay people."

He remembers how he kissed him.

"No," Patrick says, "No. He's afraid."

Brendon laughs. "Afraid of what?"

"He doesn't know the first thing about homosexuality. All he knows is the lies his parents told him."

"And?"

"Maybe," Patrick says with a touch of gentleness in his tone, "Maybe, you should talk to him. Show him that he shouldn't be afraid of people who are different."

"I don't think he'll listen to me."

Patrick stands up, and there's an air of finality as he says, "Maybe you should find that out for yourself."


	11. Sleeping It Off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! If you're interested, here's a Spotify playlist I made for this fic: https://open.spotify.com/user/jensh3p/playlist/11ZwcPY6onwHHMAJzzv9ca?si=PkojrT_1THe7X-0IfY6rIg
> 
> Give it a listen if you want.
> 
> Again, sorry for the slow update!

Brendon remains at that bench for a long, long time.

He doesn't want to think about anything that just happened. Goddammit, he wishes the pills had helped. But he's not high enough, he's not drunk enough, and the conversation with Patrick certainly didn't help him deal with his.. issues. Now, all he can think about is Dallon.

First things first, he's sure that Dallon didn't mean the kiss. Of course he didn't. For one, even though he's supposedly not homophobic, he's certainly never been friendly to Brendon after he found out he was gay. It doesn't matter why he's prejudiced, why he's afraid of gays or whatever the hell Patrick said to excuse his homophobia, but it means that Dallon would never voluntarily kiss a boy. 

Which leads him to his second point: Dallon was drunk and distraught. Extremely. His girlfriend had just broken up with him, and the poor guy, judging from his entire personality and upbringing, had never had any kind of alcohol before. Certainly, he must've been out of his mind. Which explains his willingness to kiss a guy. Maybe he thought it would help. Maybe he thought he was already going to hell anyway.

Whatever the case, Dallon kissed him, and he was drunk, and it didn't mean a thing. And as for Brendon? He just wants to forget it. He just wants to forget the way it felt to have his hands tugging fiercely on Dallon's hair, to feel that heat that he hadn't felt in so long, to lose himself in something that felt like more than what he was worth.

Brendon definitely doesn't want to take Patrick's advice about talking to Dallon, that's for sure; he can't face him again, he can't talk to him if he just wants to forget this entire goddamn thing. With a loud, desperate sigh, he buries his head in his hands, and he prays for salvation.

He sits there for hours. People begin to leave the party around 1am, but he barely notices them, lost in his own thoughts and his own pity for himself. He doesn't even notice Pete waddling up, swaying and belching like he's the biggest lightweight in the world.

"Brendon! Brendon, my man." He hiccups. "It's time to go." He jingles his car keys.

Brendon, unfortunately, seems to be the designated driver of the two, mainly because he's not as drunk as Pete. If cops pull them over, they're fucked. Pete's no help with directions, either. He's passed out moments after getting in the car, and it doesn't look like he's going to wake up anytime soon.

So, Brendon follows the winding line of cars leading out of Ashley's house and to the highway. As he waits in a traffic jam - a girl's puking in the middle of the road - he pulls a map out of Pete's glove compartment. The light's low, and he's drunk, so it takes a few minutes of squinting before he finds where they are. A car honks behind him, and he scrambles to grab the wheel again and drive off.

He's pretty sure that he knows where his house is, but it takes him a goddamn hour to make it there. His eyes are burning and Pete's still asleep when he parks.

"Wake up," Brendon says hoarsely, and when Pete shows no sign of stirring, he shoves him. Still nothing. He slaps him. Nothing. Finally, he uncorks a bottle of water that was previously on the floor and splashes it onto Pete's face.

Obscenities pour out of his mouth as Pete claws his way upright."Dude," he says, blinking, "Brendon, what the fuck?"

"We're at my house," Brendon explains as calmly as he can, "You're too drunk to drive home."

"Lemme walk," says Pete.

Brendon resists the urge to punch him in the face. Then, he tells him, "It's, like, 3 in the morning. And you live too far away. So you're coming inside with me."

Surprisingly, Pete doesn't argue with this. He allows Brendon to drag him out of the car and onto their lawn, where he spends a few minutes relearning how to stand. All the while, Brendon's praying that they're not going to wake anyone up. God knows what the neighbors would say.

After they get inside, Brendon tugs Pete into his room, and says in a low voice, "Try not to make any noise, okay? My sisters are sleepin-"

Pete interrupts him by rushing over to the open window and throwing up. As Brendon watches him retch, he thinks that in any other situation, he'd be thrilled to bring a guy home. But, unfortunately, instead of a hot guy, he has Pete Wentz. Who is currently like the 5th person Brendon's seen vomit in the past few hours.

Due to the vomit fiasco, Brendon makes Pete sleep on the floor, and he seems to be fine with it, as he's blacked out before Brendon even gives him a pillow. As for Brendon, however, sleeping seems to be a lost cause. It's not that he's not tired; no, he just can't stop thinking. It's like his brain doesn't have an OFF switch.

However, his body finally takes pity on him, and he crashes. Hard.

But it doesn't even feel like he's slept when he wakes up again, when he's jolted back to life by the sound of his alarm blaring. Pete groans on his floor.

"It burns," whimpers Pete.

"Maybe you shouldn't have gotten so drunk," points out Brendon, who's rocking a serious migraine himself. It's only 7am, and he wishes his alarm hadn't gone off, but maybe this was for the better. Maybe he can get Pete out of the house without waking up his mother or sisters.

A knock at the door gives him pause.

"Brendon?" his mother says. "Brendon, whose car is parked outside?"

He heaves a sigh. "It's my friend's, Mom," he explains heavily, "He's staying the night."

"You didn't say anything about any fr-"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

At this point, Pete's managed to push himself up into a sitting position, and he's squinting up at Brendon. He looks like he feels bad for him.

Luckily, his mother disappears without another word.

"Can you manage to drive yourself home?" Brendon asks, and luckily, Pete nods.

So after a good ten minutes of groaning and forcing themselves to stand up, Brendon and Pete head down the hallway. Brendon avoids his mother's questioning gaze, and instead opens the door for Pete.

"You take care," he says.

Pete shines a tired smile. "You too."

The rest of the day is exceedingly lonely for Brendon. He feels... lost. He feels like he's going to vomit at any given moment, and that's not just because of his hangover.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees _him_. He sees Dallon. He sees the way he looked at him, all desperate and sweaty and needing something. Last night was.. different. He doesn't know if it's because Dallon was drunk or what, but he didn't look at him with that fear in his eyes. With that contempt. With that disgust.

He doesn't know if he wants things to return to normal. He hasn't figured that out yet.

Regardless, the world doesn't wait for Brendon Urie to figure things out. Before he's really ready to face the next day, it's already midnight and he's already staring up at his ceiling, praying for an escape.

And then it's already 7am, and he's already on the bus.

And then he's shouldering his backpack and squeezing his eyes shut as he walks into Chemistry.

He doesn't feel brave enough to face this. He doesn't think he can look Dallon in the eyes, he doesn't think he can handle this in the slightest. However, he sits down in his chair, and he waits for the dreaded moment when Dallon Weekes sits down next to him.

But.

But, that moment doesn't come.

Mr. Knight starts talking as soon as the bell rings, and Brendon keeps glancing at the door, wondering when Dallon will show up. But the door never opens, and he feels like he's been saved. Temporarily, at least.

"Brendon!" Pete says as Brendon leaves his 4th period, grinning so widely it looks like his face might crack in half. "Brendon, my man. You wanna skip with us?"

Spencer's next to him, looking thoroughly tired and sick of everything. So is Ian, actually, his expression mirroring Spencer's.

"Well-" Brendon starts to decline, because he cannot deal with Pete Wentz today. He absolutely cannot.

"Great!" exclaims Pete. "We're gonna go practice, actually, for our show tonight. You can meet Oli!"

"O-"

"Our lead singer," says Spencer.

"And, and," Pete adds, "I've got free tickets for our show. You gotta come, Bren. You gotta. You've never seen us perform!"

"I have a headache," Brendon says meekly.

"Okay! We'll buy you lunch. Won't we?" Pete shoots a look at Ian and Spencer, who nod. Probably because they're terrified of the Pete Wentz Consequences if they don't agree.

Brendon, feeling defeated, follows Pete, Spencer, and Ian out to the parking lot. They all pile into Pete's car, Brendon somehow managing to snatch shotgun. He doesn't really know where they're going, and honestly? He doesn't really care. Lately - more specifically, ever since the party - he's felt like he has no control in his own narrative. He's just along for the ride.

Pete takes them to a house Brendon's never seen, but judging from how Spencer digs out a key to let them in, it's Spencer's place. It's nice. It feels like it's been lived in, that's for sure, Brendon reflects as they walk in past the shoe rack and into a large but messy kitchen. There's toys on the ground.

"You have siblings?" he asks.

Spencer's face brightens. "I have two sisters."

"Me too," Brendon says, and even though his heart feels heavy, he smiles.

Pete makes good on his promise to buy him lunch. After they arrive in their practice area - which is basically just Spencer's garage with a few speakers and a drumset - he orders pizza for all of them, and Brendon gladly partakes in the dish. He doesn't think about how he's missing school for the millionth time, and he certainly doesn't think about how this still won't help distract him from his ever-present thoughts of Dallon.

Sauce decorates Pete's fingers as he grabs another slice and says, "Alright, guys. It looks like Oli's gonna be late, so-"

The door swings open, and a boy with shaggy brown hair and tattoos hops inside. He looks old. Like, college age, maybe. Someone who probably shouldn't be hanging out with a bunch of high schoolers.

He doesn't apologize for being late, only takes a piece of pizza and chews on it.

"Fuckin' Dominos, man," he says through a mouthful of dough. "Tastes like shit."

"Well," Pete snaps, "Nobody's forcing you to eat it."

Ian plugs his guitar into an amp and it screeches, loud enough to hurt Brendon's ears. This shuts everyone else up temporarily, enough for Spencer to sit down behind the drums and Pete to pick up his bass before another argument interrupts.

"I'm just saying," Oli says into the mic, "It's not like you had to order Domino's. You could've gotten something dece-"

"We have to practice," Spencer says calmly. "We have a gig tonight."

All the while, Brendon's watching from the couch, and he knows that Pete invited him along to cheer him up, but this is doing the opposite of that. He closes his eyes, and as the guitars screech and the drums pound mercilessly, he drifts off to sleep.


	12. Misanthrope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient with the lack of updates! I'd like to formally apologize for Not Knowing How To Manage My Time. Anyways, I'm on summer break now, so I have all the time in the world to write :D
> 
> I'm hoping to finish this fic by August or September, but seeing as I'm not even close to halfway through, we'll see what happens! I promise, it'll stop being so slow burn-y soon enough. Things will happen.

Brendon doesn't know how, exactly, he manages to fall asleep, but somehow he does, somehow he's passed out for almost the entire practice - even though Arma's music is _loud_ , it's the kind of music you crank up late at night and your parents tell you to shut the fuck up before they ground you for a month. It's the kind of music that screams, _I want attention_! It's the kind of music that's angry, that's pissed off at the world for no goddamn reason. It's the kind of music his father used to hate, and his mother would tolerate but still secretly despise.

Back in Los Angeles, he'd blast music until the walls shook. And then he'd get in trouble, and then he'd get pissy and sneak over to Ryan's house, and then they'd drive downtown, and then they'd fuck in the bathroom of some dingy, cheap venue, and then Brendon would wash his hands and then he'd say, "Round two?"

And now here he is, lost in some dizzy, sticky dreamland with Arma's music hurting his ears and Spencer's leather couch cold against his skin. At some point, he wakes up, but he's too exhausted to open his eyes. He still has the shittiest of hangovers from the other day, and everything is too bright when his eyes are open. 

Finally, after what seems like hours and hours of screeching guitars and Oli's scratchy vocals, the sounds stop.

"Okay," Brendon hears Pete say, "Okay. Nice. Uh, so that was-"

"We could add a few more songs," Oli interrupts. "Setlist was a bit short."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but that was... two hours?"

"We didn't even play any of the good shit."

"Okay, fuck you."

"It was good," says Brendon in his raspy, thick-with-sleep, broken voice. "From what I heard."

He can hear Pete's smile in his words as he says, "Thanks." Brendon shields his face from the migraine-inducing fluorescent lights as he sits up, squinting to make out Pete's blurry figure. Spencer's kneeling behind his drums, packing up his snare in a thick black suitcase.

"We gotta leave in fifteen," Ian says. "If we wanna have time to set up, that is."

Brendon faintly realizes that he hasn't really heard Ian speak in all the time he's been around him. Maybe he's shy. He steals a look at him. He's avoiding eye contact.

Oli's already heading out the door. "Gotta get some food on the way," he informs everyone, as though he hadn't just eaten five fucking slices of Domino's.

"Gotta get some food," mocks Spencer under his breath. "Because he's the lead fucking singer, he's so fucking  _important_ -"

"Chill," Pete says, and he seems to be used to this negative commentary, because he didn't even flinch. "He doesn't have any gear he needs to bring. He's allowed to leave, man."

"I have drums. I have this entire goddamn drumset to haul into a van. And does he ever help? Has he ever helped? Once?"

Pete doesn't reply, and Ian's fiddling around with his guitar strings, and the silence is horribly awkward.

"I can help," volunteers Brendon. He feels the tiniest bit guilty that he's just been sleeping. After all, Pete invited him over to hang out. And to come see their show.

Spencer softens. Just a bit. "Thank you."

While Pete and Ian focus on lugging their amps and other equipment into the van parked outside, Brendon silently helps Spencer pack up his drums. It's therapeutic, almost; working with his hands and letting the sweat roll down his forehead is the easiest distraction he's found in a while. And Spencer doesn't mind silence, and Brendon's so goddamn thankful for that he might cry.

He likes Pete, but for all his good intentions, he's never the best at personal boundaries or knowing when to stop. He's always pushing. Brendon didn't even want to come today, he didn't want to deal with Pete and his high school metal band for another second. And yet, here he is, thanks to Pete Wentz's attempt at cheering him up.

Thank God for Spencer.

The quiet is nice, with only the occasional comment about where to put things and what to adjust. The moving is the hard part: lifting a drumset isn't the easiest task in the world.

But they finish, eventually, and they pile into the van along with Ian and Pete.

"You should be a roadie," Spencer tells Brendon, and he laughs.

"Yeah, no." He shakes his head. "Not for me."

He supposes he would like tour life. Certainly, he has a taste for it. He's been in bands. He's been in the music scene before he knew what the music scene was. But as he sits here, as he listens to Pete and Spencer bicker about Oli, he wonders if he'd survive living in close quarters with people like that for so long.

He wonders how he'd survive it, when they stop at a gas station and a soda bottle explodes in the van, and then Ian's on his knees cleaning it up while Pete rants about the upholstery.

He wonders how he'd enjoy it, when they're thirty minutes late and Oli is calling them, screaming about how the opener's pissed and how they're going to fucking regret ever being born.

He wonders how he'd ever be a musician, when Arma goes on stage and Spencer's hands are clenching his sticks so tightly they turn white because Oli called him a _fucking fag_ for forgetting to pack an extra mic, when Pete's screaming and the crowd is roaring against the sound, when the people are surging forward like tidal waves in the dark, and Brendon's just standing and watching it all, and he's wondering if he wasn't born for this life after all, or if Arma's just setting a bad example of what music should be.

Whatever the case, he knows most of Pete's enthusiasm about his band must be fake, because there's no way he can love something like this, something that's held together by duct tape and guitar strings, something that's riding on the wave of teenage destruction brewing in the tiny club they're in. It's temporary, but it's more temporary than anything else not meant to last. It's a temporary that people love, it's a temporary two hours out of their evening that feels like an escape. It's a temporary that almost sold out a club in Las Vegas, it's a temporary that sells records and begs to be seen.

Maybe it's Oli, he thinks, seeing the looks Pete shoots him, eyes all dark and pissed-off. Maybe it's Pete, seeing how he's urging the crowd to yell, seeing how he's bringing on the chaos in a desperate attempt to quiet the rage they're blasting through speakers.

"Good show," Ian says carefully when it's all over, when Brendon's helping Spencer move his drums for the third time that day.

"It was-" Oli begins, but Pete cuts him off with, "Good is definitely one word for it!"

The van is silent on the way back, and it's still silent when Brendon hops out in front of his house and sneaks back into his room. He tastes sweat and blood, and he doesn't bother to shower. Instead, he climbs into bed, and he sleeps.

He's sleepwalking the next morning, he's living with a blindfold pulled over his eyes.

"Come to another show," Pete says before school starts, and this time, Brendon has the sense to decline.

Of course, he sees Dallon first period. Of course, he doesn't look at him.

This mindless haze isn't new to him, but he's grateful for the sameness. For the gray, for the dull world around him. The last few nights were more excitement than he'd ever need. So he's content to live in this gray world, he's content to sit with Pete and Friends at lunch and block them out.

Spencer, however, he doesn't block out.

First day after the show, and third day after the party, Spencer says, "Thank you for helping out yesterday, man."

Brendon says, "You're welcome."

Second day, Spencer says he should listen to this new song he found.

Brendon says he will, thanks.

Third day, Brendon says he liked the song, and maybe Spencer would like this other band, this local band from LA Brendon knows is fucking superb live.

And so on.

It's another week before Pete begs him to come to another show. He says he likes having Brendon around. He says he does wonder for the band's chemistry. He says it calms Spencer down. So Brendon says yes, if only for Spencer. Because he calms him down, too.

He reminds him of Patrick. But Brendon doesn't spend time with Patrick like he does with Spencer. They're still friends. But Patrick sits with Dallon at lunch, and Patrick reminds him of the party, and he looks at him with that pity in his eyes that makes Brendon want to puke.

It's awkward, too. Their late-night conversation left some things unanswered, and what with Patrick being closer to Dallon, it's awkward.

Spencer doesn't know about Dallon, he doesn't know about the kiss, and even if he's not as unconventionally kind as Patrick, he's easier to be around. Less talking. More comfort.

He hadn't met anyone like that in a while.

So Brendon endures Alma's shows for him, and Brendon goes with Pete and him to the mall, and they fuck around, and Brendon survives. He survives the best he can, stranded in Las Vegas with maybe three or four friends at best. Distractions help, music helps, and he survives. 

In November, that changes.

It'd been a month since the party.

It'd been a month since Brendon looked Dallon in the eye.

Sometimes he thinks about it. Sometimes, when it's late at night, when he can't fall asleep, he thinks about how it felt. How it was more intense than anything he'd ever done before.

But fantasies remain fantasies, and survival remains survival, and Brendon deals with it.

"We're starting a new project!" Mr. Knight announces at 8:03 AM on a windy Thursday morning. "You guys are gonna love this one."

Since survival means sucking up and dealing with the situation, Brendon resolves not to complain about this new project he's supposedly going to love, even if he's fucking horrible at Chemistry. Spencer will help him, like he always does. He's fucking brilliant at this stuff.

"It's partner-oriented. I'll pass out the syllabus..."

Mr. Knight's voice fades into oblivion, and Brendon ponders the possibility of stealing Pete's car and fucking off to some fast-food chain during lunch. But that would involve money, and Brendon hasn't worked a day since his job at McDonald's in LA, so he'd have to plead for some cash, too.

"No," he hears from the boy sitting next to him, and at the sound of his pretentious, college-professor voice, Brendon stiffens. "No, I'm not going to."

"Mr. Weekes," Mr. Knight says kindly. "You don't get a choice, okay?"

"I'm not working with him."

Brendon's listening in now. He's trying to figure out why Dallon's so pissed off. He's never rude towards Mr. Knight, nor towards any figure of authority. Brendon's noticed _that_ much.

"I'm not working with Brendon Urie," Dallon spits.

So.

So, now Brendon looks up.

"What?" he says weakly, looking at Mr. Knight. "We're partners?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"No," Brendon admits.

"You're working together," Mr. Knight tells them, irritated and pissy. "Okay?"

"No," Brendon and Dallon say at the same time, and a second after they do so, they make eye contact. Brendon's heart constricts at the sight of those blue, blue eyes that he's been imagining for months now.

"This isn't an option," Mr. Knight says. "What's so-"

"I'm not fucking working with him." Brendon states. He doesn't care that he just swore. It doesn't matter. He's not fucking working with Dallon Weekes, he's not voluntarily spending time with him, he's not even talking to him ever again.

"Detention," Mr. Knight says sharply. "For both of you. Until you learn how to get along."

So maybe he shouldn't have sworn, because Dallon's glaring at him angrily, and oh, God, he won't survive in this hell for much longer with Dallon Weekes on his tail.

Mr. Knight tells them both to come to his room after class, and Brendon feels sick.

 


	13. I Threw Glass At My Friend's Eyes And Now I'm On Probation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from one of my favorite bands, Destroy Boys. They're a local band and I love them dearly. Go give them a listen!

So just as Brendon thought everything might possibly be okay, everything might _possibly_ go well for once in his life, this bullshit happens, and he's left feeling nauseous, he's left feeling like his head is spinning and like he might pass out any moment now. _Fuck, fuck, oh, God, he's fucked._

Everything he's done to avoid Dallon is now down the drain. And not only does he have to spend time with  _him_ after school, but the school will call home to report his detention to his mom, and he's already skipped too many classes and gotten in trouble too many times. He'll be grounded, or screamed at, and it's all Dallon's goddamn fault. (Which, strictly speaking, isn't true at all.)

Brendon can't concentrate in the slightest during his next few classes; he can't stop thinking about the fact that he's screwed, that he's going to have to face the boy he's been avoiding for a month now. God, things were so much easier in LA, he thought. No weird friends like Pete, no bloody noses, and no homophobic pretty boys who he can't seem to get rid of. He just wants to ignore him. He doesn't- he doesn't _hate_ him, he just doesn't want to be around him. But clearly, Dallon harbors some resentment, or maybe fear, or _something_ , because the way he said Brendon's name, like it was something poisonous, something wrong..

Brendon sighs.

The worst part about waiting is that time doesn't always agree with you. The day before a concert you've been waiting for, time is jelly, time is a thick gelatinous soup and the clock hand simply won't budge forward. But waiting for something you hate? Time speeds up, hours pass with no regard to your well-being. It's lunchtime before Brendon even knows it. Which means two more hours until After School, two more hours until he has to face whatever punishment God has waiting for him.

Even lunch doesn't pass by slowly. Pete's going off about something or other, and Spencer is nowhere to be found, which leaves Brendon sitting at the table with his skin pale and his stomach tossing and turning. Nobody even asks him what's wrong. And of course Brendon knows that's a silly thing to get mad about, of course he knows that they're not obligated to check up on his well-being every time he's a little bit quiet, but the fact that nobody notices his anguish hurts. Even Pete, who's normally good about this kind of thing, does nothing.

So Brendon, being the pissy asshole he is, doesn't say anything when he gets up and leaves. It's hard not to feel angry when he feels so.. not left out, exactly, but ignored. Here he is, struggling, and his good friends of _two months_ aren't patting his back and cooing over him? So rude. So unnecessary.

Of course he shouldn't expect coddling, but when he's sitting on the curb of the parking lot, and when he's watching Mr. Wood talk with Mr. Knight outside of the Chemistry department, he wishes he had someone to comfort him when bile is rising in his throat and his hands are shaking. Unfortunately, lunch seems to pass by as quickly as the first four periods did. He'd skip fifth and sixth if he wasn't so terrified of receiving additional punishment, he'd skip if he wasn't worried about being expelled. Even if being at this school had already caused him so much drama, he didn't want to get kicked out. He'd made friends. He didn't want to go through that process all over again.

Fifth and sixth go by quickly, too quickly, and when the last bell rings, he's struggling not to puke. Vainly, he hopes that Dallon won't show, and that Mr. Knight will give him a stern talking-to and that will be that, but he knows that won't be the case. After all, Dallon Weekes is a goody two-shoes. He's probably never gotten detention before. In fact, he's probably more afraid than Brendon is right now.

The thought gives him hope, and so he walks into Mr. Knight's room with a thinly veiled frown and shaky, quivering hands. He sits down in the front of the classroom, Mr. Knight nowhere to be found. For two excruciating minutes, he waits.

And then he hears soft footsteps, and he turns around, and he meets Dallon's eyes.

"Hi," Brendon says quietly.

For a moment, Dallon's icy eyes study him.

"Hey," he returns, and then he sits down three seats away from him, and all Brendon can hear is his own heartbeat.

And for what seems like forever, they sit. They sit, and they wait, and they don't look at each other, and they don't do anything until the door swings open and Mr. Knight barges through. His footsteps are loud and stompy, unlike Dallon's careful, gentle tread.

Mr. Knight sits down at his desk, feet away from where Brendon and Dallon sit nervously.

"Boys," he says, clapping his hands together. He seems to be in a good mood, which is promising. "You two have some explaining to do."

Brendon and Dallon stay quiet.

"Can either of you tell me," he continues, standing up and beginning to pace, "why you're both so adamant about not working together?"

Brendon wonders how a man whose legal name is Awsten Knight knows the word _adamant_.

"We don't get along," Dallon supplies.

Mr. Knight nods, then turns to Brendon expectantly. Brendon, not having a reply, just stares at him. He wishes he would just stop this torture, and instead just give them their punishment so he could go about his day. What's the point of dragging this out? Why isn't Mr. Knight just ending his misery? God forbid they have to have a discussion about their _feelings_ , about what they _think_ about each other..

"Well?" prompts Mr. Knight.

"What he said," Brendon says finally.

Their teacher is silent, "Well," Mr. Knight clears his throat, "You two are just going to have to deal with your differences."

For a fleeting second, Brendon feels brave.

"And if we don't?" he dares to ask.

Mr. Knight fixes his gaze on him. "You both fail this class. I'm not putting up with this nonsense."

He gives them both a second to think about the consequences of "failing this class" - not graduating, essentially. Brendon absolutely does not want to think about that.

"As it is," their teacher continues, "Since you two clearly don't respect authority around here, I'm assigning you detention for a week. Every day, after school, two hours. Maybe you guys can work on your project together."

Both Brendon and Dallon stare at him, and for once, they clearly agree on something: _What the absolute FUCK was Mr. Knight on, and why was he assigning them -_ Brendon did the mental math _\- 10 hours of detention?_

Apparently someone whose legal name is Awsten Knight isn't as much of a joke as Brendon thought. He swallows, and he wonders how he's going to survive the next week.

"Detention is in Mr. Wood's room in-" Mr. Knight checks his watch. "One minute." He cracks a smile, slapping down a pink detention slip in front of Brendon, then Dallon. "Better not be late."

As they struggle to grab their backpacks and get the hell to Mr. Wood's room, Brendon wishes he's never been born. He nearly trips over the threshold trying to exit, and he hears Dallon chuckle. _Well, fuck you too_ , he wants to say, but he can't make Dallon hate him any more than he already does. So he keeps his mouth shut, and he and Dallon walk into Mr. Wood's room.

Surprisingly, it seems.. more chill than he thought it'd be. Pairs of students are talking quietly, kids are listening to music, and Mr. Wood himself is lounging on his chair with his feet propped up next to a stack of papers.

"Mr. Urie and Mr. Weekes, I presume," Mr. Wood says, holding his hand out for their detention slips. When they split up and head to opposite sides of the room, Mr. Wood shakes his head. "Ah-ah-ah!" he says delightedly. "Nope! You two are working on your chemistry project together. Chop chop, dear fellows!"

Reluctantly, Brendon walks over to Dallon, sitting next to him but making sure to keep his distance. Of course Mr. Knight had to choose the most cruel punishment available. Of course he did.

Dallon digs around in his backpack, pulling out the syllabus and setting it down neatly in front of them.

"So," he says primly, "I was thinking we choose hydrogen cyanide."

Brendon stares at him like he's grown three heads. Dallon's.. talking to him? Normally? " _What_?"

"Hydrogen cyanide," Dallon repeats, like he thinks Brendon's a bit slow. "For our project?"

"No, no," Brendon shakes his head. "No. You're _talking_ to me?"

"Well," Dallon clears his throat, looking a bit awkward and lost, "You heard Mr. Knight. We have to work together."

Brendon's still reeling from the fact that Dallon's not punching him and/or kissing him.

"Sorry, I just-" Brendon swallows, and pauses for a second.

"I thought you.. hated me?" He hates how his voice cracks on the last syllable, but he needs to know. He _has_ to know. He thinks back to his conversation with Patrick - oh, God, that feels like _eons_ ago - and he remembers what he'd said. Dallon didn't hate him. Dallon wasn't homophobic. Dallon was a good person, despite the mistakes he'd made.

So, was he?

"Of course I don't hate you," Dallon says, looking at him strangely. "Why would you think that? We don't even know each other. Besides-" He falters.

"Besides the time you punched me?" Brendon raises an eyebrow. "Or, no, no, I'll do you one better. Besides the time you kis-"

"Don't say that," Dallon interrupts him hastily, "Do not say that."

Brendon looks around. Nobody's listening to their conversation; nobody's even noticed their presence. "Besides the time you kissed me," he repeats fiercely, albeit in a lower tone.

Dallon winces.

"I don't hate you," Dallon says evenly. "I know I may have.. I know I've been rude. And I apologize. I just-" He sighs. "I don't- I'm not- I don't think you and I would be compatible as friends. We aren't... the same."

"Because I'm gay," Brendon says.

Dallon takes a while to think before he replies, "Yeah."

"Well, this might come as a surprise," Brendon scoffs, "but someone's sexuality has no impact on their personality. It's not the defining trait of anyone, it's not a reason to discriminate against someone. Anyways, you think I could just go around avoiding straight people? It'd be impossible."

Shockingly, he hears Dallon laugh.

"I think we have very different mindsets," Dallon tells him, looking at him with those clear blue eyes that made Brendon's heart melt way back in August. "I don't think we could get along."

"I don't know if you noticed, but," Brendon glances around pointedly, "We're gonna have to."

Dallon taps the syllabus. "Apparently so."

"So," Brendon says, looking anywhere but those blue, blue eyes, "I wasn't paying attention earlier today. What do we have to do again?"

"Choose a compound, make a posterboard about it, and prepare a ten minute speech." Dallon reads from the instructions, squinting like he has trouble seeing the small print. "Due on finals day." Brendon wonders if he needs glasses. He then pictures Dallon in glasses, and he hates himself for smiling slightly. Two minutes into a conversation with Dallon, and he's already dealing with a resurgence of his feelings. Fuck.

"Well, that's-" Brendon thinks for a second, tapping his fingers on the table. "Like, a month and a half. We can do this, easy."

"No notecards for the speech. No nothing except the posterboard."

"Goddammit," Brendon says thoughtfully.

"Gosh darn indeed," Dallon murmurs, already taking out his pencil.

Unsurprisingly, they don't do very much in the two hours provided. Brendon had thought this would be an easy project, but apparently, they would need at least ten sources, and that would mean a few trips to the library, and God, Mr. Knight was a dick. The syllabus is four pages long, packed with dense instructions, and even Dallon, the smarter of the two, has trouble figuring out what exactly they're supposed to do _specifically_.

However, Brendon isn't _too_ mad at Mr. Knight. Without him, he wouldn't have this golden opportunity to fix things with Dallon. He wouldn't have this opportunity to make his senior year maybe a little bit enjoyable - something he would've thought was impossible after Homecoming.

(He wouldn't have this opportunity to get closer to Dallon and maybe, just maybe, remember what his kisses taste like.)


End file.
